I 


jfc 


EDWARD   MARSH 

CHARLES'  f.b/ 


.' 


<»  CALff   LIBRARY.  U>9  ANGELES 


SUE   SAW   THE   STRANGER  BKEAK  THROUGH  THE  UNDERGROWTH  ABOUT   THE   POOL. 

Frontispiece.    Page  24. 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 

A   Story   of  the  Bluegrass  and   the 

Mountains  Founded  On  Charles 

T.  Dazey's  Play 

By 

EDWARD  MARSHALL 

and 

CHARLES  T.  DAZEY 


Illustrations  By 
CLARENCE   ROWE 


G.  W.  DILLINGHAM   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


CopyriffM,  1910. 

BY 

O.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY. 
In  Old  Kentucky. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Page 

She  saw  the   stranger   break  through  the   undergrowth 

about  the  pool.  ....  Frontispiece  24 
A  mighty  leap  had  carried  them  beyond  the  blazing 

barrier 65 

"No  man  can  cross  this  bridge,  unless — unless "  .  173 

"Back!  back!  I'm  a-comin'  with  Queen  Bess  I"  .  .  279 
"Look !  look !  in  the  stretch !  Her  head  is  at  Catalpa's 

crupper!" 325 

"I'm  standin'  face  to  face  with  my  own  father's  murderer 

— Lem  Lindsay." 348 


In  Old  Kentucky 


CHAPTER  I. 

SHE  was  coming,  singing,  down  the  side  of 
Nebo  Mountain — "Old  Nebo" — mounted  on 
an  ox.  Sun-kissed  and  rich  her  coloring; 
her  flowing  hair  was  like  spun  light;  her  arms, 
bare  to  the  elbows  and  above,  might  have  been  the 
models  to  drive  a  sculptor  to  despair,  as  their  mus- 
cles played  like  pulsing  liquid  beneath  the  tinted, 
velvet  skin  of  wrists  and  forearms;  her  short  skirt 
bared  her  shapely  legs  above  the  ankles  half-way 
to  the  knees;  her  feet,  never  pinched  by  shoes  and 
now  quite  bare,  slender,  graceful,  patrician  in  their 
modelling,  in  strong  contrast  to  the  linsey-woolsey 
of  her  gown  and  rough  surroundings,  were  as 
dainty  as  a  dancing  girl's  in  ancient  Athens. 

The  ox,  less  stolid  than  is  common  with  his  kind, 
doubtless  because  of  ease  of  life,  swung  down  the 
rocky  path  at  a  good  gait,  now  and  then  swaying 
his  head  from  side  to  side  to  nip  the  tender  shoots 
of  freshly  leaving  laurel.  She  sang: 

"Woodpecker  pecked  as  a  woodpecker  will, 
Jim  thought  'twas  a  knock  on  the  door  of  the  still, 
He  grabbed  up  his  gun,  and  he  went  for  to  see, 
The  woodpecker  laughed  as  he  said :    'Jest  me !' " 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


She  laughed,  now,  not  at  the  song,  which  was 
purely  automatic,  but  in  sheer  joy  of  living  on  that 
wonderful  June  day  in  those  marvellous  Kentucky 
mountains.  Their  loneliness  did  not  depress  her; 
indeed,  to  her,  they  were  not  lonely,  but  peopled 
by  a  host  of  lifelong  friends  who  had  greeted  her 
at  birth,  and  would,  she  had  every  reason  to  sup- 
pose, speed  her  when  her  end  came.  Their  majesty 
did  not  overwhelm  her,  although  she  felt  it  keenly, 
and  respected  it  and  loved  it  with  a  certain  dear, 
familiar  awe.  And  everywhere  about  her  was  the 
Spring.  Laurel  blossomed  at  the  trail's  sides,  fill- 
ing the  whole  air  with  fragrance ;  the  tardier  blue- 
berry bushes  crowding  low  about  it  had  begun  to 
show  the  light  green  of  their  bursting  buds;  young 
ferns  were  pushing  through  the  coverlet  of  last 
autumn's  leaves  which  had  kept  them  snug  against 
the  winter's  cold,  and  were  beginning  to  uncurl 
their  delicate  and  wondrous  spirals;  maple  and 
beech  were  showing  their  new  leaves.  The  air  was 
full  of  bird-notes — the  plaintively  pleading  or  exul- 
tantly triumphant  cries  of  the  mating  season's  joy 
and  passion.  Filmy  clouds,  like  scattered,  snowy 
ostrich  plumes,  floated,  far,  far  up  above  her  on 
a  sea  of  richest  blue;  a  fainter  blue  of  spring- 
time haze  dimmed  the  depths  of  the  great  valley 
which  a  wide  pass  gave  her  vision  of  off  to  the 
left — and  she  was  rather  glad  of  this,  for  the  haze, 
while,  certainly,  it  hid  from  her  much  beauty,  also 
hid  the  ugly  scars  which  man  was  making  there  on 

6 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


nature's  face,  the  cuts  and  gashes  with  which  the 
builders  of  the  new  railway  were  marring  the  rich 
pasture  lands. 

She  turned  from  this  to  pleasanter  and  wilder 
prospects,  close  at  hand,  as  her  path  narrowed,  and 
began  to  sing  again  in  sheer  joyousness  of  spirit. 

"Mr.  Woodpecker  laughed  as  a   woodpecker  will, 
As  Jim  stood  lookin'  out  of  the  door  of  the  still, 
'Mr.  Jim,'  he  remarked,  'I  have  come  for  to  ax 
Ef  you'd  give  me  a  worm  for  my  revenue  tax' !" 

The  placid  ox,  plodding  slowly  down  the  trail, 
did  not  swerve  when  the  bushes  parted  suddenly  at 
one  side,  as  she  finished  this  verse  of  her  song,  but 
Madge  Brierly  looked  about  with  a  quick  alertness. 
The  sound  of  the  rustling  leaves  and  crackling 
twigs  might  mean  a  friend's  approach,  they  might 
mean  the  coming  of  one  of  the  very  enemies  whom 
the  song  had  hinted  at  so  lightly,  but  against  whom 
all  the  people  of  the  mountains  keep  perpetual 
watch,  they  might  even  mean  a  panther,  hungry 
after  his  short  rations  of  the  winter  and  recklessly 
determined  on  a  meal  at  any  cost. 

But  it  was  Joe  Lorey's  face  which  greeted  her 
as  she  abruptly  turned  to  see.  His  coon-skin  cap, 
his  jerkin  and  trousers  of  faded  blue-jeans,  his 
high,  rusty  boots  matched  perfectly  with  his  primi- 
tive environments.  As  he  appeared  only  the  oLI- 
fashioned  Winchester,  which  he  carried  cradled  in 
his  crooked  elbow,  spoke  of  the  Nineteenth  cen- 
tury. His  face,  though  handsome  in  a  crudely 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


modelled  way,  had  been  weather-beaten  into  a 
rough,  semi-fierceness  by  the  storms  through  which 
he  had  watched  the  mountain-passes  during  the  long 
winter  for  the  raiders  who  were  ever  on  his  trail. 
The  slightly  reddened  lids  of  his  dark,  restless  eyes, 
told  of  long  nights  during  which  the  rising  fumes 
of  moonshine  whisky  stealthily  brewing  in  his  fur- 
tive still,  cave-hidden,  had  made  them  smart  and 
sting.  Even  as,  smilingly,  he  came  up  to  the 
strangely  mounted  maid,  there  was  on  his  face  the 
strong  trace  of  that  hunted  look  which  furtive  con- 
sciousness of  continual  and  unrelenting  pursuit 
gives  to  the  lawbreaker — even  to  the  lawbreaker 
who  believes  the  laws  he  breaks  are  wrong  and  to 
be  violated  without  sin  and  righteously. 

"That  you,  Joe?"  said  the  girl.  "You  skeered 
me." 

"Did  I?"  he  replied,  grinning  broadly.  "Didn't 
plan  to." 

From  far  below  there  came  the  crash  of  bursting 
powder.  Quick  and  lithe  as  a  panther  the  man 
whirled,  ready  with  his  rifle.  The  girl  laughed. 

"Nothin'  but  the  railroad  blastin'  down  there  in 
the  valley,"  she  said  with  amusement.  "Ain't  you 
uset  to  that,  yet?" 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  ain't— an'  never  will  be." 

His  tone  was  definitely  bitter.  Never  were  the 
sounds  of  progress  more  ungraciously  received  than 
there  among  the  mountains  by  the  folk  who  had, 
hedged  in  by  their  fastnesses,  become  almost  a  race 

8 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


apart,  ignorant  of  the  outside  world's  progressions 
and  distrustful  and  suspicious  of  them. 

"Where  you  goin',  Madge?"  he  asked,  plodding 
on  beside  the  lurching  ox. 

"I  ain't  tellin',"  she  said  briefly.  "But  you  can 
go  part  ways — you  can  go  fur  as  th'  pasture  bars." 

"Why  can't  I  go  as  fur  as  you  go?" 

"Because,"  said  she,  and  laughed.  "I  reckon 
maybe  that  th'  water's  started  to  warm  up  down  in 
the  pool,  ain't  it?"  she  cried,  and  laughed  again. 

"Oh!"  said  he,  a  bit  abashed,  and  evidently  un- 
derstanding. 

They  did  not  pursue  the  subject. 

"What  you  got  there?"  he  inquired,  a  few  mo- 
ments later,  as  they  were  approaching  the  old  pas- 
ture. He  pointed  to  a  package  carefully  wrapped 
in  a  clean  apron,  which  she  hugged  beneath  her 
arm. 

"Spellin'  book,"  said  Madge,  as,  just  before  the 
bars  she  slid  down  from  her  perch  upon  the  ox. 
"I'm  learnin'." 

His  lip  curled  with  the  mountaineer's  contempt 
for  books  and  all  they  have  to  teach. 

"What  you  want  to  learn  for?" 

He  had  gently  shouldered  her  aside  as  she  had 
stooped  to  raise  the  bars  back  to  position,  and,  with 
a  certain  crude  gallantry,  had  done  the  task  him- 
self. 

"Bleeged,"  she  said  briefly,  and  then,  standing 
with  one  brown  and  rounded  arm  upon  the  topmost 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


rail,  paused  in  consideration  of  an  answer  to  his 
question. 

The  ox  stopped,  dully,  close  within  the  closed 
gap  in  the  rough  fence.  She  went  closer  to  him 
and  patted  his  side  kindly.  "Go  on,  old  Buck,"  she 
said.  "I'm  through  with  you  for  quite  a  while. 
Go  on  and  have  some  fun  or  rest,  whichever  you 
like  best.  You  certainly  can  stand  a  lot  of  rest! 
And  here  is  new  spring  grass,  Buck.  I  should  think 
you  would  be  crazy  to  git  at  it." 

As  if  he  understood,  the  old  ox  turned  away,  and, 
slowly,  with  careful  searching  for  the  newest  and 
the  tenderest  of  the  forage  blades  which  had  pushed 
up  to  meet  the  pleasant  sunshine,  showed  he  was 
well  fed  at  all  times. 

"What  do  I  want  to  learn  for?"  the  girl  re- 
peated, returning  to  Joe's  question.  "Why — why 
— I  don't  know,  exactly.  There's  a  longin'  stirrin' 
in  me. 

"While  you  was  over  yon"  (she  waved  her  hand 
in  a  broad  sweep  to  indicate  the  mountain's  other 
side).  "I  had  to  go  down  into  town  after — after 
quite  a  lot  of  things."  She  looked  at  him  some- 
what furtively,  as  if  she  feared  this  statement 
might  give  rise  to  some  unwelcome  questioning,  but 
it  did  not.  "I  saw  what  queer  things  they  are  doin' 
— th'  men  that  work  there  on  that  railroad  buildin'. 
Wonderful  things,  lots  of  'em,  and  the  bed-rock  of 
'em  all  was  learnin'.  I  watched  a  gang  of  'em  for 
near  plum  half  a  day.  There  wasn't  a  thing  they 

10 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


did  that  they  didn't  first  read  from  a  sheet  of  paper 
about.  If  they  hadn't  had  them  sheets  and  if  they 
couldn't  read  what  had  been  written  on  'em,  why, 
they  couldn't  never  build  no  railroad.  And  not 
only  that — they  got  all  kinds  of  comfort  out  of  it. 
They  have  their  books  that  tell  'em  what  other  men 
have  done  before  'em,  they  have  their  newspapers 
that  tell  'em — everyday,  Joe — what  other  men  are 
doin',  everywhere,  fur  as  th'  earth  is  spread. 

"They  know  things,  them  men  do,  and  they're 
heaps  happier  because  of  it."  She  paused,  leaning 
on  the  old  worn  fence. 

"An'  their  wimmen  knows  things,"  she  went  on. 
"I'm  goin'  to,  too.  It's  th'  greatest  comfort  that 
they've  got.  I'm  goin'  to  have  that  comfort,  Joe!" 

She  patted  the  new  spelling  book  as  if  it  were  a 
precious  thing. 

"I'm  goin'  to  have  that  comfort,"  she  continued. 
"I'm  goin'  to  know  th'  ins  an'  outs  o'  readin'  an'  ' 
(she  sighed  and  paused  a  second,  as  if  this  next 
seemed  more  appalling)  "an'  of  writin'.  Dellaw ! 
That's  hard !  All  sorts  of  curves  an'  twists  an'  ups 
an'  downs  an'  things,  an'  ev'ry  one  means  some- 
thin'  !" 

Joe  looked  at  her,  half  in  admiration,  half  in 
apprehension.  "You  goin'  to  git  too  good  fer 
these  here  mountings?"  he  inquired. 

She  gazed  about  her  with  a  little  intake  of  the 
breath,  a  little  sign  of  ecstasy,  of  her  appreciatidn 
of  the  wondrous  view. 

II 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Too  good  for  these  here  mountings?"  she  said 
thoughtfully.  "Learnin'  couldn't  make  me  that !  It 
might  show  me  how  to  love  'em  more.  Nothin'  in 
th'  world,  Joe,  could  make  me  love  'em  less!" 

He  became  more  definite,  a  bit  insistent.  It  had 
been  plain,  for  long,  that  it  had  required  some  self- 
control  for  him  to  walk  as  he  had  walked,  close  by 
her  side,  without  some  demonstration  of  his  ad- 
miration for  her,  to  stand  there  with  her  at  the 
bars  without  some  sign  that  in  her  presence  he 
found  happiness  much  greater  than  he  had  ever 
known,  could  ever  know,  elsewhere. 

"You  goin'  to  git  too  good  fer — me?"  he  asked. 

She  turned  toward  him  impulsively.  Great 
friendship  shone  frankly  in  her  fine  eyes.  On  her 
face  was  that  expression  of  complete  and  under- 
standing comradery  which  one  child  chum  may 
show  another.  Almost  she  said  as  much  of  him 
as  she  had  said  of  the  surrounding  mountains,  but 
there  was  that  upon  his  face  which  stopped  her. 
It  was  too  plain  that  friendship  was  not  what  he 
wanted,  would  not  satisfy  him.  There  was  a  hun- 
gry yearning  in  his  eyes,  mute,  respectful,  worship- 
ful, not  for  comradery,  but  for  a  closer  tie.  She 
had  watched  this  grow  in  him  within  the  recent 
months,  with  worry  and  regret.  It  seemed  to  her  a 
tragedy  that  their  old  friendship  should  ever  prove 
inadequate. 

"No,"  she  answered  gently,  "I  shall  never  get 
too  good  for  you,  Joe — for  any  of  my  friends." 

12 


• 

IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


He  looked,  almost  with  aversion,  at  the  book  she 
held  so  closely.  He  distrusted  books.  Instinctively 
he  felt  them  to  be  enemies. 

"If  you  get  them  there  ideas  about  learnin',  an' 
all  that,  you  will!"  he  gruffly  said.  "Leastways 
you'll  be  goin'  off,  some  day  an'  leavin'  us — me, 
the  mountings  an' — an'  all  yer  friends  up  here." 

An  expression  of  great  earnestness,  of  almost 
fierce  intensity  grew  in  his  face.  "Madge,"  he  said, 
"Madge  Brierly,  you're  makin'  a  mistake!  You're 
plannin'  things  to  take  you  off  from  here;  you're 
plannin'  things  t»  make  you  suffer,  later  on. 
You're  gettin'  blue-grass  notions,  an'  blue-grass  no- 
tions never  did  no  mounting-born  no  good."  He 
stepped  closer  to  her. 

The  latent  fires  in  his  approaching  eyes  were 
warning  for  her  and  she  stepped  back  hastily. 
"Joe  Lorey,  you  behave  yourself!"  said  she. 

«T  » 

"Can't  ye  see  I  love  ye,  Madge?"  he  asked,  and 
then  the  fires  died  down,  leaving  in  his  eyes  the 

pleading,    worried    look    alone.      "Why,    Madge, 
j " 

She  tried  to  make  a  joke  of  it.  "Joe  Lorey," 
she  said,  laughing,  "I  reckon  you're  plum  crazy. 
An'  you  ain't  givin'  me  a  chance  to  do  what  't  was 
that  I  come  down  for." 

"But " 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  listen  to  another  word,  to-day," 
said  she,  and  waved  him  off. 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


He  went  obediently,  but  slowly  and  unhappily, 
his  rifle  snuggling  in  the  crook  of  his  left  elbow, 
his  heavy  boots  finding  firm  footing  in  the  rough 
and  rocky  trail  as  if  by  instinct  of  their  own,  with- 
out assistance  from  his  brain.  A  "revenuer,"  com- 
ing up,  just  then,  to  bother  him  about  his  still  and 
its  unlawful  product  of  raw  whisky,  would  have 
met  small  mercy  at  his  hands.  He  would  have 
been  a  bad  man,  then,  to  quarrel  with.  His  temper 
would  have  flared  at  slightest  provocation.  He 
would  not  let  it  flare  at  her;  but,  unseeing  any  of 
the  beauties  which  so  vividly  appealed  to  her,  the 
bitter  foretaste  of  defeat  was  in  his  heart;  and 
in  his  soul  was  fierce  revolt  and  disappointment. 
He  had  not  the  slightest  thought,  however,  of  ac- 
cepting this  defeat  as  final. 

Madge  watched  him  go  with  a  look  of  keen  dis- 
tress upon  her  fresh  and  beautiful  young  face.  She 
must  not  let  him  say  what  he  had  almost  said,  for 
she  shrank  from  the  thought  of  wounding  him 
with  the  answer  she  felt  in  her  heart  that  she  would 
have  to  make.  He  had  slouched  off,  half-way  down 
the  trail  and  out  of  sight,  before  she  put  the 
thoughts  of  the  unpleasant  situation  from  her  mind 
and  turned  again  to  the  great  matter  which  had 
brought  her  there,  that  day. 

With  a  last  glance  at  the  gap  in  the  rail  fence, 
to  make  sure  that  it  had  been  carefully  replaced,  so 
that  there  could  be  no  danger  of  finding  her  ox 
gone  when  she  returned,  she  started  down  the 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


mountain,  by  a  path  different  from  that  which  Joe 
had  taken. 

She  had  not  gone  very  far,  when,  from  a  clump 
of  bunch-grass  just  in  front  of  her,  only  partly, 
yet,  renewed  by  the  new  season,  a  hare  hopped  awk- 
wardly, endeavoring  to  make  off.  Its  progress 
was  one-sided,  difficult. 

Instantly  she  saw  that  it  was  wounded  and  with 
a  little  cry  she  ran  toward  it  and  caught  it.  In- 
stinctively the  tiny  animal  seemed  to  recognize  her 
as  a  friend  and  ceased  to  struggle.  One  of  its  fore 
legs  had  been  broken,  as  she  quickly  saw. 

With  a  little  exclamation  of  compassion,  she  sat 
down  upon  a  hummock,  tore  from  her  skirt  a  bit 
of  cloth,  found,  on  the  ground,  two  twigs,  made 
of  these  crude  materials  rude  splints  and  bandages, 
bound  the  wounded  creature,  and  sent  it  on  its  pain- 
ful way  again.  She  sighed  as,  after  having 
watched  it  for  a  moment,  she  arose. 

"Pears  like  us  human  bein's  always  was  a-hurtin' 
somethin',"  she  soliloquized,  distressed.  "Thar 
some  chap  has  left  that  rabbit  in  misery  behind 
him,  and  here  I've  sent  Joe  Lorey  down  the  moun- 
tain with  a  worse  hurt  than  it's  got."  She  sighed. 
"It  certain  air  a  funny  world!"  she  said. 

The  subject  of  the  wounded  rabbit  did  not  leave 
her  mind  until  she  had  clambered  down  the  rocky 
path  half-way  to  the  small  stream  which  she 
sought  below.  She  was  ever  ready  with  compas- 
sion for  the  suffering,  especially  for  dumb  and  help- 

15 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


less  suffering  animals,  and,  besides,  the  episode  had 
puzzled  her.  Who  was  there  in  those  mountains 
who  would  ivound  a  rabbit?  Joe  might  have  shot 
one,  as  might  any  other  of  the  mountain  dwellers 
who  chanced  to  take  a  sudden  fancy  for  a  rabbit 
stew  for  supper,  but  Joe  nor  any  of  the  other  na- 
tives would  have  left  it  wounded  and  in  suffering 
behind  him.  Too  sure  their  markmanship,  too  care- 
ful their  use  of  ammunition,  for  such  a  happening 
as  that.  Trained  in  the  logic  of  the  woods,  the 
presence  of  the  little  suffering  animal  was  a  proof 
to  her  that  strangers  were  about.  The  people  of 
the  mountains  regard  all  strangers  with  suspicion. 
Half-a-dozen  times  she  stopped  to  listen,  half-a- 
dozen  times  she  started  on  again  without  having 
heard  an  alien  sound.  Once,  from  the  far  distance, 
she  did  catch  a  faint  metallic  clinking,  as  of  the 
striking  of  a  hammer  against  rock,  but  it  occurred 
once  only,  and  she  finally  attributed  it  to  the 
mysterious  doings  of  the  railroad  people  in  the 
valley. 

Down  the  path  she  sped,  now,  rapidly  and 
eagerly.  It  was  plain  that  something  which  she 
planned  to  do  when  she  reached  her  destination 
filled  her  with  anticipation  of  delight,  for  her  red 
lips  parted  in  a  smile  of  expectation  as  charming  as 
a  little  child's,  her  breath  came  in  eager  pantings 
not  due  wholly  to  the  mere  exertion  of  the  rapid 
downward  climb.  When,  beyond  a  sudden  turn  in 
the  rude  trail,  she  suddenly  saw  spread  before 

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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


her  the  smooth  waters  of  a  pool,  formed  by  the 
creek  in  a  hill-pocket,  she  cried  aloud  with  pleas- 
ure. 

"Ah,"  said  she.  "Ah!  Now  here  we  be!" 
But  it  was  not  at  this  first  pool  she  stopped. 
Leaving  the  path  she  skirted  its  soft  edge,  in- 
stead, and,  after  having  passed  down  stream  some 
twenty  yards  or  more,  pushed  her  skilled  way  be- 
tween the  little  trees  of  a  dense  thicket  and  into 
a  dim,  shadowy  woods  chamber  on  beyond,  where 
lay  another  pool,  velvety,  en-dusked,  save  for  the 
flicker  of  the  sunlight  Ihrough  dense  foliage. 

Here  her  delight  was  boundless.  She  ran  for- 
ward with  the  eagerness  of  a  thirsty  bird,  and, 
leaning  on  the  bank,  supporfed  by  bent  arms,  bent 
down  and  drank  with  keenest  relish  of  the  cool 
spring  waters  gathered  in  the  "cove,"  then  dabbled 
her  brown  slender  fingers  in  the  shining  depths, 
watching,  with  a  smile,  concentric,  widening  ripples 
as  they  hurried  out  across  the  glassy  surface,  to  the 
ferned  bank  beyond.  A  few  yards  away  a  hidden 
cascade  murmured  musically.  Through  the  sparse 
and  tender  foliage  of  spring  above  her,  the  sun- 
light flickered  in  bright,  moving  patches  of  golden 
brilliance,  falling  on  the  breast  of  her  rough,  home- 
spun gown,  like  decorations  given  by  a  fairy  queen. 
Around  the  water's  edges  budding  plants  and  deep- 
hued  mosses  made  a  border  lovely  everywhere,  and 
for  long  spaces  deep  and  soft  as  velvet  pile.  A 
thrush  called  softly  from  the  forest  depths  behind 

17 


her.  From  the  other  side  his  mate  replied  in  a  soft 
twittering  that  told  of  love  and  confidence  and  com- 
fort. A  squirrel  scampered  up  the  trunk  of  a 
young  beech,  near  by,  and  sat  in  the  first  crotch  to 
look  down  at  her,  chattering.  A  light  breeze  sighed 
among  the  branches,  swaying  them  in  languorous 
rhythm,  rustling  them  in  soft  and  ceaseless  whisper- 
ings. 

All  these  familiar,  pleasant  sights  and  sounds  de- 
lighted her.  During  the  long  winter  she  had  been 
shut  away  from  this,  her  favorite  spot  among  the 
many  lovely  bits  of  wilderness  about  her,  and  now 
its  every  detail  filled  her  with  a  fresh  and  keen  de- 
light. She  looked  and  listened  greedily,  as  happy  as 
a  city  child,  seated,  for  the  first  time  in  a  space  of 
months,  before  a  brightly  lighted  stage  to  watch  a 
pantomime.  A  dozen  times  she  ran  with  little, 
bird-like  cries  to  bend  above  some  opening  wild- 
flower,  a  space  she  spent  in  watching  two  intently 
busy  king-birds,  already  fashioning  their  nest.  An- 
other squirrel  charmed  her  beyond  measure  by  sit- 
ting, for  a  moment,  on  a  limb  to  gaze  at  her  in 
bright-eyed  curiosity,  and  then,  with  a  swift  run 
down  the  trunk,  quite  near  to  .her,  as  if  entirely 
satisfied  that  he  saw  in  her  a  certain  friend,  scut- 
tling to  the  water's  edge  for  drink.  She  had  never 
seen  a  squirrel  drink  before — few  people  have — 
and  she  stood,  as  motionless  as  might  a  maid  of 
marble,  watching  him,  until,  having  had  his  fill,  he 
gave  his  tail  a  saucy  flirt  and  darted  back  to  his 

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AY  OLD  KENTUCKY 


beech  fortress,  to  sit  again  upon  his  limb  and  chat- 
ter gossip  at  her. 

After  he  had  gone  back  to  his  tree  she  looked 
carefully  about  her.  It  now  became  apparent  that 
she  had  come  there  to  the  pool  for  some  especial 
purpose  and  that  she  wished  to  be  quite  sure  of 
privacy  before  she  put  it  into  execution,  for  she 
went  first  to  the  path  by  which  she  had  descended, 
there  to  listen  long,  intently,  then,  with  a  lithe 
spring  where  the  brook  narrowed  at  the  pool's 
mouth,  to  the  other  side,  where,  at  some  distance 
in  the  forest,  by  another  woods-path's  edge,  she 
stood  again,  intent  and  harkening. 

Apparently  quite  satisfied  that  so  far  as  human 
beings  went  her  solitude  was  quite  complete,  she 
returned,  now,  to  the  pool's  edge  and  stood  gazing 
down  upon  its  polished  surface.  Soon  she  dipped 
the  toe  of  one  brown,  slender  foot  into  it,  evidently 
prepared  to  draw  back  hastily  in  case  of  too  low 
temperature,  but  tempted,  when  she  found  the  water 
warm,  she  gently  thrust  the  whole  foot  in,  and  then, 
gathering  her  skirt  daintily  up  to  her  knees,  actually 
stepped  into  the  water,  wading  with  little  shrill 
screams  of  delight. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  poised  there,  both  hands 
busy  with  her  skirt,  which  was  pulled  back  tight 
against  her  knees.  Then,  after  another  hasty  glance 
around,  she  sprang  out  upon  the  bank  with  a  quick 
gesture  of  determination,  and,  close  by  the  thicket's 
edge,  disrobed  entirely  and  came  back  to  the  water 

19 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


as  lovely  as  the  dream  of  any  ancient  sculptor, 
as  alluring  as  the  finest  fancy  of  the  greatest  pain- 
ter who  has  ever  touched  a  brush. 

Slim,  graceful,  sinuous,  utterly  unconscious  of 
her  loveliness,  but  palpitating  with  the  sensuous 
joy  of  living,  she  might  have  been  a  wood  nymph, 
issuing  vivid,  vital,  from  the  fancy  of  a  mediaeval 
poet.  The  sunlight  flecked  her  beautiful  young 
body  with  fluttering  patches  as  of  palpitant  gold 
leaf.  The  crystal  water  splashed  in  answer  to  the 
play  of  her  lithe  limbs  and  fell  about  her  as  in 
showers  of  diamonds.  Flowers  and  ferns  upon  the 
pool's  edge,  caught  by  the  little  waves  of  overflow, 
her  sport  sent  shoreward,  bowed  to  her  as  in  a 
merry  homage  to  her  grace,  her  fitness  for  the 
spot  and  for  the  sport  t6  which  she  now  abandoned 
herself  utterly,  plunging  gaily  into  the  deepest 
waters  of  the  basin.  From  side  to  side  of  its 
narrow  depths  she  sped  rapidly,  the  blue-white  of 
the  spring  water  showing  her  lithe  limbs  in  perfect 
grace  of  motion  made  mystically  indefinite  and 
shimmering  by  refraction  through  the  little  rip- 
pling waves  her  progress  raised.  She  raced  and 
strained,  from  the  pure  love  of  effort,  as  if  a  stake 
of  magnitude  depended  on  her  speed. 

Then,  suddenly,  this  fever  for  fast  movement  left 
her  and  she  slowed  to  languorous  movement,  no  less 
lovely. 

The  trout,  which  had  been  frightened  into  hiding 
by  the  splashing  of  her  early  progress,  came  tim- 

20 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


idly,  again,  from  their  dim  lurking  places,  to  eye 
this  new  companion  of  the  bath  with  less  distrust, 
more  curiosity.  With  sinuous  stroke,  so  slow  it 
scarcely  made  a  ripple,  so  strong  it  sent  her  steadily 
and  firmly  on  her  zig-zag  way,  she  swam,  now, 
back  and  forth,  around  about,  from  side  to  side  and 
end  to  end  in  the  deep  pool,  with  keen  enjoyment, 
each  movement  a  new  loveliness,  each  second 
bringing  to  her  fascinating  face  some  new  expres- 
sion of  delight  and  satisfaction.  Behind  her 
streamed  her  flowing  hair,  unbound  and  free  to 
ripple,  fan-like,  on  the  water;  before  her  dainty 
chin  a  little  wave  progressed,  unbreaking,  running 
back  on  either  hand  beside  her,  V-shaped.  Her 
hands  rose  in  the  water,  caught  it  in  cupped 
palms  and  pushed  it  down  and  backward  with  the 
splashless  pulsing  thrust  of  the  truly  expert  swim- 
mer. 

Only  the  warm  blood  of  perfect  health  could 
have  endured  the  temperature  of  that  shaded  moun- 
tain pool  so  long,  and  soon  even  she  felt  its  chill 
gripping  her  young  muscles,  and,  as  unconscious 
of  her  wholly  revealed  loveliness  as  any  nymph  of 
old  mythology,  scrambled  from  the  water  to  the 
bank  and  stood  there  where  a  shaft  of  comfortable 
sunshine  found  its  welcome  way  through  rifted  foli- 
age above.  To  this  she  turned  first  one  bare  shoul- 
der, then  the  other,  with  as  evident  a  sensuous  de- 
light as  she  had  shown  when  the  cool  water  first 
closed  over  her.  Then,  throwing  back  her  head, 

21 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


she  stood  full  in  the  brilliance,  and,  inhaling  deeply, 
let  the  sunlight  fall  upon  the  loveliness  of  her  young 
chest.  The  delight  of  this  was  far  too  great  for 
voiceless  pleasure,  and  her  deep,  rich  laughter  rip- 
pled out  as  liquid  and  as  musical  as  the  tones  of  the 
tiny  waterfall  above  the  pool.  She  raised  a  knee 
and  then  the  other  to  let  the  vitalizing  sunlight  fall 
upon  them;  then,  with  head  drooped  forward  on 
her  breast,  stood  with  her  sturdy  but  delicious 
shoulders  in  its  shining  path.  Her  happiness  was 
perfect  and  she  smiled  continually,  even  when  she 
was  not  giving  vent  to  audible  expressions  of  en- 
joyment. 

Suddenly,  however,  this  idyllic  scene  was  inter- 
rupted. In  the  woods  she  heard  the  crashing  of  an 
awkward  footstep  and  a  muttered  word  or  two  in  a 
strange  voice,  as  might  come  from  a  lowlander 
whose  face  has  suffered  from  the  sting  of  a  back- 
snapping  branch. 

For  an  instant  she  poised,  frightened,  on  the 
bank.  The  intruder's  crashing  progress  was  bring- 
ing him,  as  her  ears  plainly  told  her,  steadily  in 
her  direction.  Panic-stricken,  for  a  moment,  she 
crouched,  hugging  her  bare  limbs  in  an  ecstasy  of 
fear.  To  get  her  clothes  and  put  them  on  before 
he  reached  the  pool  would  be  impossible,  a  hasty 
glance  about  her  showed  no  cover  thick  enough  to 
flee  to. 

One  concealment  only  offered  perfect  hiding — 
the  very  pool  from  which  she  had  so  recently 

22  ' 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


emerged.  She  poised  to  slip  again  into  the  water 
noiselessly  and  then  caught  sight  of  her  disordered 
clothing  on  the  bank.  To  leave  it  there  would  as 
certainly  reveal  her  presence  as  to  remain  on  the 
bank  herself!  Hastily  she  gathered  it  and  the  new 
spelling  book  into  her  arms,  and,  with  not  ten  sec- 
onds of  spare  time  to  find  the  cover  which  she  so 
desperately  needed,  endeavored  to  slip  quietly  into 
the  pool  again. 

Her  certainty  of  movement  failed  her,  this  time, 
though,  and  one  foot  slipped.  Into  the  pool  she 
went,  half-falling,  and  with  a  splash  which,  she 
was  certain,  would  be  audible  a  hundred  yards 
away.  Terrified  anew  by  this,  she  dived  quickly 
to  the  bottom  of  the  pool  and  with  all  a  trout's 
agility  and  fearlessness,  her  clothing  and  beloved 
book  clasped  tight  against  her  bosom  by  her  crooked 
left  arm,  her  right  arm  sending  her  with  rapid 
strokes,  when  she  was  quite  submerged,  the  full 
length  of  the  pool  to  its  far  end.  There  a  fallen 
tree,  relic  of  some  woodland  tempest  of  years  gone 
by,  extended  quite  from  bank  to  bank,  moss-cov- 
ered, half  hidden  by  small  rushes  and  a  little  group 
of  other  water-plants.  She  dived  beneath  this  log 
with  the  last  atom  of  endurance  she  possessed  and 
rose,  perforce,  upon  the  other  side,  stifling  her 
gasps,  but  drawing  in  the  air  in  long,  luxurious 
breathings.  With  her  mouth  not  more  than  half- 
an-inch  above  the  water  and  her  feet  upon  hard 
bottom,  she  crouched  there,  watching  through  the 

23 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


screen  of  plants,  her  clothes  and  book  still  pressed 
against  her  breast. 

As  she  peered  across  the  log  between  the  rushes, 
she  saw  the  stranger,  with  a  wary  step,  break 
through  the  undergrowth  about  the  pool — cau- 
tiously, expectantly.  The  water  heaved  a  bit  about 
her  chin,  for  her  hidden  chest  was  palpitating  with 
the  short,  sharp  intakes  of  a  chuckling  laughter. 

"Thought  I  were  a  b'ar,  most  likely!"  she 
thought  merrily,  quite  certain  of  the  safety  of  her 
hiding  place.  "Some  furriner."  All  strangers,  in 
the  mountains,  are  spoken  of  as  "foreigners"  and 
regarded  with  a  hundred  times  the  wonder  and  dis- 
trust shown  in  cities  to  the  native  of  far  lands,  re- 
mote. 

Her  guess  was  shrewd.  The  stranger  had  plainly 
been  attracted  by  the  sounds  of  her  delighted  splash- 
ing and  had  hurried  up  with  rifle  ready  for  a  shot 
at  some  big  game.  Now  he  stood  upon  the  granite 
edges  of  the  pool,  disappointed  even  in  his  instinc- 
tive search  for  footprints,  with  only  the  slowly 
widening  circles  left  upon  the  surface  by  her  hur- 
ried flight  to  show  him  that  he  had  not  wholly  been 
mistaken  in  his  thought  that  something  most  un- 
usual had  recently  occurred  there  in  the  "cove." 
Eagerly  his  disappointed  glance  roved  around  the 
circling  thicket — nowhere  did  it  see  a  sign.  When 
it  neared  the  place  of  her  concealment  the  hidden 
girl  ducked,  softly,  making  no  undue  commotion 
in  the  swiftly  running  water  at  the  pool's  outlet, 

24 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


and  the  searching  glance  passed  on,  quite  unsus- 
pecting, before  her  breath  failed  and  her  head 
emerged  again. 

"Confound  it!"  the  deeply  disappointed  youth  ex- 
claimed. "I  was  dead  certain  I  heard  something. 
I  did  hear  something,  too."  He  sighed.  "But  it 
is  gone,  now." 

At  length  he  turned  away  in  a  bad  temper,  and 
presently  she  heard  him  crashing  awkwardly 
through  brush  and  brake,  departing. 

Shivering  from  her  long  submersion  in  the  gelid 
waters  of  the  mountain  stream,  she  cautiously 
emerged,  struggling  between  light-hearted  laughter 
at  the  comedy  of  her  escape  and  rueful  worry  about 
the  fact  that  she  was  not  only  deeply  chilled  but 
had  no  clothes  which  were  not  wet.  Her  soaked 
spelling-book,  also,  gave  her  much  concern.  Be- 
fore she  spread  her  clothing  out  in  the  sparse  sun- 
light, she  took  the  dripping  volume  to  the  warmest 
little  patch  of  brilliance  on  any  of  the  rocks  sur- 
rounding, and,  as  she  opened  its  leaves  to  catch  the 
sunshine,  examined  it  with  loving  solicitude  to 
find  how  badly  it  was  damaged. 

"Fast  color,"  she  said  happily,  looking  at  the 
mighty  letters  of  its  coarse  black  print.  "Ain't 
faded  none,  nor  run,  a  mite."  This  plainly  give 
her  great  relief.  Deftly  she  turned  each  leaf,  using 
the  extremest  care  to  avoid  tearing  them,  handling 
them  with  loving  touch.  Between  them  she  laid 
little  pine  cones,  so  that  air  might  circulate  among 

25 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


them  and  assist  the  process  of  their  drying.  Then, 
having  wrung  her  clothing  till  her  strong,  brown, 
slender  wrists  ached,  she  spread  that  out  in  turn, 
but  on  less  favored  rocks,  and,  as  her  feeling  of 
security  increased,  fell  into  an  unconscious  dance, 
born  of  the  necessity  of  warmth  from  exercise,  but 
so  full  of  grace,  abandon,  joy,  that  a  poet  might 
have  fancied  her  a  river-nymph,  tripping  to  the 
reed-born  music  of  the  goat-hoofed  Pan. 

When,  later,  she  had  slowly  dressed,  and  was 
kneeling  at  the  pool's  edge,  using  the  now  placid 
surface  of  the  water  as  a  mirror  to  assist  her  in 
rough- fashioning  her  hair  into  a  graceful  knot,  she 
heard  again,  from  a  great  distance,  a  metallic 
"tink,  tink-tink,"  which  had  caught  her  ear  when 
she  had  first  stood  on  the  pool's  edge.  It  came,  she 
knew,  from  far,  however,  and  so  did  not  rouse  her 
apprehension,  but,  mildly,  it  aroused  her  curiosity. 

"Hull  kentry's  'full  o'  furriners,"  she  mused. 
"That  railroad  buildin'  business  in  the  valley 
brings  'em.  Woods  ain't  private  no  more."  Again 
the  tink,  tink-tink.  "Sounds  like  hammerin'  on 
rocks,"  she  thought.  "It's  nearer  than  th'  railroad 
builders,  too.  I  wonder  what — but  then,  them  fur- 
riners are  wonderful  for  findin'  out  concernin' 
ev'rythin'." 

She  hugged  her  pulpy  spelling  book  against  her 
breast  with  a  little  shiver  of  determination.  "I'm 
goin'  to  1'arn,  too,"  she  said  with  firm  decision  as 


26 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


she  scrambled  up  the  rough  and  rocky  mountain 
path. 

For  a  time,  as  she  progressed,  her  thoughts  re- 
mained afield,  wandering  in  wonder  of  what  that 
"furriner"  might  be  up  to  with  the  tink-tink  of  his 
hammer  upon  rocks.  This  soon  passed,  however, 
and  they  dwelt  again  on  the  pool  episode. 

She  had  never  seen  a  man  dressed  as  the  stranger 
had  been.  A  carefully  made  shooting- jacket  had 
covered  broad  and  well-poised  shoulders  which 
were  free  of  that  unlovely  stoop  which  comes  so 
early  to  the  mountaineer's.  A  peaked  cap  of  sim- 
ilar material  had  shaded  slightly  a  broad  brow  with 
skin  as  white  as  hers  and  whiter.  Beneath  it,  eyes, 
which,  although  they  were  engaged  in  anxious 
search  when  she  had  seen  them,  she  knew  could, 
upon  occasion,  twinkle  merrily,  had  gazed,  clear, 
calm,  and  brown.  A  carefully  trimmed  mustache 
had  hidden  the  man's  upper  lip,  but  his  chin,  again 
a  contrast  to  the  mountaineers'  whom  she  had  spent 
her  life  among,  showed  blue  from  constant  and 
close  shaving.  Yet,  different  as  he  was  from  her 
people  of  the  mountains,  as  she  recalled  that  face 
she  could  not  hate  him  or  distrust  him. 

She  had  never  in  her  life  seen  any  one  in  knick- 
erbockers and  leggins  before,  and  the  memory  of 
his  amused  her  somewhat,  yet  she  admitted  to  her- 
self that  they  had  seemed  quite  "peart"  as  she 
peered  at  them  through  the  reeds. 

But  it  was  the  modern  up-to-date  Winchester 

27 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


which  he  had  held,  all  poised  to  fly  up  to  the  ready 
shoulder  should  he  find  the  splashing  animal  which 
had  attracted  his  attention  by  its  noise,  which,  next 
to  his  handsome,  clean-cut  face,  had  most  aroused 
her  admiration. 

"Lordy!  Joe  'd  give  his  eyes  to  hev  a  gun  like 
that,"  she  said. 

And  then  she  made  a  pun,  unconscious  of  what 
the  outer  world  calls  such  things,  but  quite  con- 
scious of  its  humor.  "Thought  I  was  a  b'ar,"  she 
chuckled.  "Well,  I  certainly  was  b'ar!" 

Feeling  no  further  fear  of  any  one,  defiant,  now 
that  she  was  fully  clothed,  of  "furriners,"  rather 
hoping,  as  a  matter  of  fact  that  she  might  some- 
time meet  this  one  again,  she  let  her  laugh  ring  out 
unrestrained.  A  cat-bird  answered  it  with  a  harsh 
cry;  a  blue-jay  answered  him  with  a  still  harsher 
note.  But  then  a  brown  thrush  burst  into  unaccus- 
tomed post-meridian  song.  Even  his  throbbing 
trills  and  thrilling,  liquid  quaverings,  had  not  more 
melody  in  them,  however,  than  had  her  ringing 
laughter. 


CHAPTER  II 

Her  laugh,  too,  roused  more  than  vagrant  birds 
into  attention.  She  had  emerged  from  the  abrupt 
little  valley  and  was  entering  upon  a  plateau 
which  had  been  left  comparatively  open  by 
the  removal  of  great  trees,  sacrificed  to  furnish 
ties  for  the  new  railroad  building  in  the  lowlands. 
The  place  was  littered  with  the  discarded  tops  of 
pines  and  other  woodland  rubbish  and  seemed  for- 
lorn and  wrecked.  She  swept  her  eyes  about  with 
the  glance  of  a  proprietor,  for  Madge  Brierly 
owned  all  of  this  as  well  as  most  of  the  land 
through  which  the  brook  which  deepened  into  the 
pool  of  her  adventure  flowed.  Indeed  the  girl  was 
counted  rich  among  her  fellows  and  owned,  also, 
land  down  in  the  valley  on  which  she  would  not 
live,  but  which  she  rented  for  an  annual  sum  to  her 
significant,  although  it  would  not  have  kept  a  low- 
land belle  in  caramels. 

In  the  center  of  the  disordered  clearing  just  be- 
fore her,  was  the  person  who,  like  the  birds,  had 
been  roused  to  keen  attention  by  the  maiden's  ring- 

29 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


ing  laugh.  She  saw  him  first  while  he  was  peering 
here  and  there,  astonished,  to  learn  whence  the 
sound  had  come,  and,  with  the  instinctive  caution 
of  the  mountain-bred,  she  quickly  stepped  behind 
a  clump  of  laurel,  through  which  she  peered  at 
him. 

He  was  a  man  of  sixty  years,  or  thereabouts, 
wiry,  tough  and  well  preserved.  His  hair,  of  griz- 
zled grey,  was  longer  than  most  men  wore  theirs, 
even  among  the  mountains,  where  there  are  few 
conventionalities  in  male  attire.  He  was  dressed 
in  the  ordinary  garb  of  the  Kentucky  planter  of 
the  better  class — broad  soft  hat,  flowing  necktie, 
long  frock-coat,  which  formed  a  striking  contrast 
to  the  coarse  high-boots  into  the  tops  of  which  his 
trousers  had  been  tucked — and  yet  he  hardly 
seemed  to  her  to  belong  to  the  class  of  gentlemen 
to  which  his  dress  apparently  assigned  him.  His 
face  was  coarse  and  hard,  his  eyes,  as  he  peered 
about  in  search  of  her,  were  "shifty,"  she  assured 
herself.  His  hands  were  large  and  crudely  fash- 
ioned. 

"  'Pears  like  'most  ev'ry  one  is  roamin'  'round 
my  land  to-day,"  she  thought.  "I  wonder  what 
this  one  is  up  to,  thar?" 

For  fully  fifteen  minutes  her  curiosity  remained 
unsatisfied,  for,  startled  by  the  ringing  laugh,  the 
stranger  spent  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in 
furtive  peering,  here  and  there,  about  the  clearing, 
plainly  searching  for  the  laughter.  At  no  time, 

30 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


however,  did  he  approach  her  hiding  place  near 
enough  to  see  her,  and,  finally,  apparently  satisfied 
that  his  ears  had  fooled  him,  or  that  whoever  it 
had  been  who  had  disturbed  him  with  the  merry 
peal  had  gone  away,  he  went  back  to  his  work. 

Just  what  this  work  could  be  was  what  she 
waited  curiously  to  see.  She  felt  not  the  least  re- 
sentment of  the  trespass  it  involved,  for  the  land 
was  wild,  and  on  it,  as  elsewhere  in  the  mountains, 
any  one  was  free  to  come  and  go  who  did  not  com- 
mit the  foolishness  of  neglecting  camp  fires,  likely 
to  start  forests  into  blaze,  or  the  supreme  treachery 
of  giving  information  to  the  revenue  officials  about 
hidden  stills.  Her  eager  curiosity  was  aroused, 
more  by  the  mysterious  nature  of  the  stranger's 
operations  than  by  the  fact  that  they  were  con- 
ducted on  her  land. 

Having  satisfied  himself  that  no  one,  now,  was 
near,  and,  therefore,  that  he  was  not  watched,  the 
unpleasantly  mysterious  old  man  went  back  to  the 
work  which  evidently  had  brought  him  hither. 
With  utmost  care  he  moved  about  the  place,  scru- 
tinizing outcropping  rocks,  and  this,  as  they  were 
everywhere,  meant  a  minute  examination  of  the 
land.  In  his  hand  he  carried  a  small  hammer,  and, 
with  this,  now  and  then,  after  a  careful  visual  ex- 
amination of  a  rock,  he  knicked  it,  here  and  there, 
investigating  carefully  and  even  eagerly  the  scars 
he  made,  the  bits  of  rock  which  were  clipped  off, 
now  and  then  even  looking  at  the  latter  through 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


a  magnifying  glass,  which  he  took  for  the  purpose 
from  a  pocket  of  his  vest. 

She  had  watched  these  operations,  fascinated, 
for,  possibly,  a  full  half  hour,  despite  the  discom- 
fort of  damp  clothing,  which  had  begun  to  chill 
her,  when  she  saw  signs  of  violent  excitement  on 
the  old  man's  face  and  in  his  actions,  after  he  had 
chipped  a  rock,  from  which  he  first  had  had  to 
scrape  a  thin  superstratum  of  light  soil. 

Like  a  miner  who  has  found  the  gold  for  which, 
for  years,  he  has  been  searching,  he  arose,  with  the 
tiny  fragments  in  his  hand,  to  look  at  them  with 
greedy  eyes,  in  a  more  comfortable,  upright  pos- 
ture. His  face  had  very  plainly  paled  and  in  his 
eyes  was  an  expression  of  such  avaricious  eagerness 
and  satisfaction  as  she  had  never  seen  before  upon 
a  human  countenance. 

Before  he  made  a  sound  she  knew  that  he  had 
found  that  thing  for  which  he  had  been  seeking. 
His  grizzled  countenance,  intent  as  any  alchemist's 
of  old  upon  his  search,  and,  as  its  absorption  grew, 
continually  less  a  pleasant  face  to  contemplate,  now 
twisted,  suddenly,  into  an  expression  of  incredu- 
lous joy.  He  took  the  fragment  he  had  been  ex- 
amining in  both  his  hands  and  held  it  close  before 
his  eyes.  Then  he  made  a  minute  search  of  it 
with  his  little  magnifying  glass.  Then  he  fell  upon 
his  knees,  and,  with  his  clawlike  fingers,  scraped 
more  earth  from  the  rock  whence  he  had  chipped 
it. 

32 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Satisfied  by  what  he  saw  there,  after  he  had 
done  this,  he  rose  with  a  new  expression  on  his 
face — so  crafty,  so  exultant,  and,  withal,  so  evil, 
that  Madge  involuntarily  shrank  back  to  better 
screening  in  her  leafy  hiding  place. 

The  old  man,  with  sweeping  movements  of  his 
heavily  booted  feet,  swept  the  thin  earth  he  had 
scraped  from  the  rock's  surface  back  into  its  place, 
thrust  the  fragments  deep  into  his  pocket,  and 
started  hurriedly  away,  plainly  greatly  pleased, 
along  the  trail  which  led  into  the  valley.  She 
watched  him  with  a  beating  heart,  much  puzzled. 

What  could  it  be  that  he  had  found,  there,  on 
her  land  ?  Visions  of  gold  mines  and  of  diamonds, 
rose  within  her  mind,  crude,  unformed,  childish, 
based  on  the  imperfect  knowledge  she  had  gained 
of  such  things  from  the  story-tellers  of  the  moun- 
tains. As  mountain  people  go  she  was,  already,  a 
rich  woman,  but  now  dreams  of  mightier  wealth 
swept  through  her  brain  tumultuously.  Ah,  she 
would  buy  happiness  for  all  her  friends  when  she 
had,  later  on,  unearthed  the  secret  treasures  of  her 
backwoods  clearing!  Maybe  she  would,  sometime, 
have  a  real  silk  dress! 

She  hurried  forward  in  a  stooping  run  to  make 
examination  of  the  place,  as  soon  as  the  old  man 
had  vanished  down  the  mountain  side,  to  see  (she 
thoroughly  expected  it)  the  glitter  of  bright  gems 
or  yellow  gold  beneath  the  sand  which  he  had  with 
such  care  spread  back  upon  the  little  scar  which  he 

33 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


had  made  there  in  the  earth.  With  trembling  rin- 
gers she  pushed  back  the  yellow  earth,  and  found 
— nothing  but  black  rock,  uncouth,  and  unattrac- 
tive. 

She  sat  there  on  the  ground  in  her  damp  skirts, 
too  disappointed,  for  a  moment,  to  make  an  ex- 
clamation. In  many  ways  the  girl,  although  well 
past  her  sixteenth  year,  was  but  a  child.  The  reac- 
tion from  the  mighty  dreams  of  fortune  she  had 
built  almost  unnerved  her. 

It  was  her  native  humor  which  now  saved  her. 
Instead  of  weeping  she  burst  into  sudden  laughter. 

"Dellaw!"  said  she,  aloud.  "Ain't  I  a  fool?  The 
man  was  just  a  crazy!" 

For  some  time  she  sat  there  in  the  rocky  clear- 
ing amidst  the  litter  of  pine-tops  and  small  under- 
growth, contemplating  her  own  silliness  with  keen 
amusement. 

"Why,  he  had  me  that  stirred  up,"  said  she,  "that 
I  reckoned  I  was  rich  a'ready!" 

But  she  put  the  joke  aside,  to  be  told  upon  her- 
self when  the  first  chance  came.  Her  long  hiding 
in  the  thicket  while  she  watched  the  queer  proceed- 
ings of  the  stranger  had  chilled  her  through  and 
through. 

Close  to  the  black  rock  which  had  so  excited 
him  and  which  she  had  uncovered  after  he  had 
gone,  a  little  forked  stick  stood  upright,  and  in  its 
fork,  with  one  end  slanted  to  the  ground,  a  twig 
of  green  witch-hazel  still  reposed.  Beneath  the 

34 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


twig  a  tiny  spiral  of  arizing  srnoke  showed  that 
here,  with  these  primitive  appliances,  the  treasure 
seeker  had  prepared  his  dinner,  later  carefully  cov- 
ering his  fire. 

"No  matter  how  queer  he  was  dressed,  or  what 
queer  things  he  did,"  she  told  herself,  "he  sure 
was  mountain-born.  This  here's  a  mountain  fire- 
place, sartin  sure.'' 

She  broke  dead  branches  from  a  pine-top,  not 
far  away,  but  still  far  enough  so  that,  with  reason- 
able watching,  it  would  not  be  endangered  by  a  fire 
built  on  this  spot  (the  old  man  plainly  had  consid- 
ered this  when  he  made  the  fire,  for  the  place  was 
almost  the  only  one  in  all  the  clearing  free  enough 
from  dry  pine  branches  to  make  fire  building  safe) 
and  laid  them  on  the  coals  which  he  had  buried, 
but  which  she  now  had  carefully  uncovered.  She 
would,  she  had  decided,  dry  her  clothes  before  she 
started  on  the  long,  cool,  woods-road  climb  up  to 
her  cabin. 

Kneeling  by  the  coals  and  blowing  on  them, 
skillfully  adjusting  splinters  so  that  they  would 
catch  the  draft,  she  soon  had  started  a  small  flame. 
Fed  carefully,  this  grew  rapidly.  Within  five  min- 
utes there  was  burning  on  the  site  of  the  old  man's 
little  cooking-fire  a  cheerful  blaze  of  size.  Its  rush- 
ing warmth  was  very  grateful  to  her,  and  she  held 
her  hands  out  to  it,  then  her  feet,  one  after  the 
other,  with  skirts  lifted  daintily,  so  that  her  chilled 
limbs  might  catch  the  warmth. 

35 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Invigorated  by  the  pleasant  heat,  she  once  more 
yielded  to  the  urgings  of  the  bounding  spirit  of 
rich  youth  within  her.  Even  as  she  had  sported 
in  the  water  ere  the  interloper  came  to  interrupt 
her  sylvan  bath,  now  she  sported  there  about  the 
fire  in  an  impromptu  dance,  never  for  a  second  un- 
couth, despite  the  fact  that  she  was  quite  untrained ; 
scarcely  less  graceful  than  her  merrymaking  in  the 
water,  although  then  she  had  not  been,  as  now, 
hampered  in  her  grace  of  movement  by  the  un- 
lovely draperies  of  homespun  linsey-woolsey.  As 
she  had  been  a  water-nymph,  so,  now,  she  might 
have  been  some  Druid  maid  dancing  by  an  altar 
fire.  The  roughness  of  the  ground  did  not  annoy 
her — her  feet  had  not  known  dancing  upon  pol- 
ished waxen  wood;  the  lack  of  spectators  did  not 
deter  her — those  whom  she  had  learned  to  know 
and  love,  the  mountains,  trees,  the  squirrels,  and 
birds,  were  there. 

In  the  very  midst  of  the  abandon  of  this  rustic 
symphony  of  movement,  the  thought  came  to  her 
that  the  precious  spelling-book  was  lying  on  the 
rock,  near  by,  quite  soaked,  neglected.  She  sped 
to  it  and  took  it  to  the  fire's  edge,  where,  opening 
its  pages  one  by  one,  so  that  each  would  get  the 
warmth,  she  held  it  as  close  as  she  opined  was  safe. 
Having  dried  it  until  she  no  longer  feared  the  wet- 
ting it  had  had  would  seriously  harm  its  usefulness 
(the  lovely  smoothness  of  its  magic  leaves  was 
gone,  alas!  beyond  recall)  she  paused  there  for  a 

36 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


moment,  herself  still  far  from  dry,  with  a  bare 
foot  held  out  to  the  blaze,  and  studied  curiously  one 
of  the  book's  pages. 

Thereon  the  letters  of  the  alphabet,  large,  omi- 
nous, suggestive  to  her  mind  of  nothing  in  the  world 
but  curlycues,  loomed,  mystifying.  For  the  first 
time  it  occurred  to  her  that  in  securing  the  small 
volume  she  had  not,  as  she  had  thought  to  do, 
solved  the  problem  of  an  education.  The  charac- 
ters, she  saw  to  her  dismay,  meant  nothing  to  her. 
In  the  absence  of  a  teacher  she  could  not  learn 
from  them! 

Alas,  alas!  The  matter  was  a  tragedy  to  her. 
How  could  she  have  been  so  stupid  as  to  fail  to 
think  of  this  at  first  ?  She  stood  there  with  flushed 
face,  despairing,  looking  at  the  mystic  symbols 
with  slowly  sinking  heart. 

Suddenly,  though  the  crackling  of  the  fire  filled 
her  ears,  she  was  aware,  by  some  subtle  sense,  that 
she  was  now  not  wholly  solitary  there.  Without  a 
sound  to  tell  her,  she  was  conscious  that  some  other 
person  had  within  the  moment  come  into  the  clear- 
ing. Hastily  she  looked  about.  To  her  amaze- 
ment, and,  for  a  moment,  to  her  great  dismay,  she 
saw,  standing  on  the  clearing's  edge,  the  young 
man  who  had,  not  long  before,  unknowingly  in- 
vaded her  seclusion  at  the  pool. 

Instantly  her  body  became  fiercely  conscious. 
Prickling  thrills,  not  due  to  bonfire  heat,  shot  over 
it.  Shame  sent  the  blood  in  mantling  blusht*  to 

37 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


her  cheeks,  although  she  tried  to  stop  it.  Why 
should  she  blush  at  sight  of  him?  True,  she  had 
been  there  in  the  water,  bare  as  any  new-born 
babe,  when  he  had  reached  the  pool's  edge — but 
he  had  not  seen  her.  To  him  she,  quite  undoubt- 
edly, was  a  mere  strange  mountain  maid,  unrecog- 
nized. Self-consciousness  then  was  quite  absurd. 

And  this  man  was  a  stranger  and  was  on  her 
land.  She  must  not  forget  her  mountain  courtesy 
and  fail  to  make  him  welcome. 

"Howdy,"  she  said  briefly. 

"Howdy,  little  girl?"  said  he,  and  looked  at  her 
and  smiled. 

This  form  of  address  much  amused  her.  She 
was  not  far  beyond  sixteen,  but  sixteen  is  counted 
womanhood,  there  in  the  mountains,  and  often  is 
an  age  for  wife-  and  motherhood  as  well.  "Little 
girl,"  to  her,  seemed  laughable.  But  then  she  sud- 
denly remembered  that  to  stop  their  flapping,  when 
they  were  all  soaked,  against  her  ankles,  she  had 
pinned  her  skirts  up — and  she  was  not  tall.  The 
mistake,  perhaps,  was  natural. 

"Got  a  fire  here?"  he  inquired,  inanely,  for  the 
fire  was  very  much  in  evidence. 

"Looks  like  it,  don't  it?"  she  said  somewhat 
saucily,  but  robbed  the  comment  of  offense  by 
smiling  somewhat  shyly  at  him  as  he  stood  there. 

He  was  better  looking,  she  reflected,  now  that 
she  had  an  unobstructed  view  of  him,  even  than  he 
had  appeared  when  she  had  peered  at  him  from  her 

38 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


concealment  behind  the  log  and  barricade  of  rushes. 
Of  course  he  was  a  "foreigner,"  and,  therefore,  a 
mere  weakling,  not  to  be  considered  seriously  as  a 
specimen  of  sturdy  manhood  (how  often  had  she 
heard  the  mountain  men  speak  of  the  lowlands  men 
with  scorn  as  weaklings?)  but,  none  the  less,  he 
interested  and  attracted  her,  even  if  he  did  not  in- 
spire her  with  respect. 

He  laughed.  "It  does,"  said  he,  "looks  very 
much  like  it.  Been  burning  brush?" 

"No,"  she  replied,  "jest  warmin'  up  a  little." 

"Why,  it's  not  cold." 

"I — I  was  wet." 

"Wet?"  said  he,  astonished. 

She  saw  her  slip,  and  flushed.  "Fell  in  the 
crik,"  she  answered  briefly,  hastily  and  falsely. 

"Why,  that's  too  bad,"  said  he,  with  ready  sym- 
pathy, unfeigned  and  real. 

All  the  time  the  girl  was  eying  him  through 
often-lowered  lashes,  and  the  more  she  looked  at 
him  the  more  she  felt  that  he  was  not,  like  many 
"foreigners,"  to  be  distrusted  and  be  held  aloof. 
His  clothes  did  not  suggest  to  her  the  "revenuer," 
although  they  certainly  were  different  from  any 
she  had  ever  seen  before  on  man  or  beast  (his  knee 
breeches  gave  her  some  amusement),  and  he  was 
totally  unarmed,  having  laid  his  rifle  down  and 
left  it  at  a  distance,  leaning  against  a  stump. 

His  hands  and  face  were  not  sunburned — indeed, 
his  hands  were  delicately  fashioned  and  much 

39 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


whiter  than  any  she  had  ever  seen  before  on  man 
or  woman.  His  appearance  certainly  did  not,  to 
her,  convey  the  thought  of  strength — and  manhood, 
there  among  the  mountains,  is  thought  to  find  its 
first  and  last  expression  through  its  muscle ;  yet,  for 
some  reason,  although  her  first  glance  made  her 
think  he  was  a  puny  creature,  she  neither  scorned 
nor  pitied  him.  He  was,  perhaps,  too  smoothly 
dressed,  too  carefully  shaved;  the  gun  he  had  laid 
down  so  carelessly  had  too  much  "bright  work"  on 
it — but  on  the  whole,  she  liked  him.  A  city 
maiden  might  have  well  been  dazzled  by  the  really 
handsome  chap.  This  simple  country  girl  was  not 
— but,  on  the  whole,  she  liked  him. 

Her  hand  which  held  the  spelling-book  dropped, 
unconsciously,  so  that  the  open  pages  of  the  vol- 
ume were  revealed,  upside  down,  against  her  knee. 

"Studying  your  lessons?"  he  inquired,  quite  cas- 
ually, good-naturedly,  coming  nearer. 

Again  her  disappointment  rushed  upon  her.  Im- 
pulsively she  told  him  of  it. 

"Oh,"  said  she,  "I  don't  know  how!  I  bought 
me  this  yere  book  down  in  th'  settlement,  an' 
thought  I'd  learn  things  outen  it.  But  how  'm  I 
goin'  to  learn?  I  can't  make  nothin'  out  of  it  to 
get  a  start  with." 

Instantly  the  pathos  of  this  situation,  not  its 
humor,  made  appeal  to  him. 

"Isn't  there  a  school  here?"  he  inquired. 

"Nearest  school  is  twenty  mile  acrost,  over  on 

40 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Turkey  Creek,"  she  said  briefly.  "Oncet  there 
was  a  nearer  one,  but  teacher  was  a  Hatfield,  and 
McCoys  got  him,  of  course.  This  was  McCoy 
kentry  'fore  they  all  got  so  killed  off.  He  ought  to 
'a'  knowed  better  than  come  over  here  to  teach." 

This  casual  reference  to  a  famous  feud — news 
of  whose  infamy  had  spread  far,  far  beyond  the 
mountains  which  had  hatched  it — from  the  lips  of 
one  so  young  and  lovely  (for  he  had  long  ago  ad- 
mitted to  himself  that  as  she  stood  there  she  was 
lovelier  than  any  being  he  had  ever  seen  before) 
appalled  Frank  Layson,  son  of  level  regions,  grad- 
uate of  Harvard,  casual  sportsman,  amateur  moun- 
taineer, who  had  come  to  look  over  his  patrimony 
and  the  country  round  about. 

"Ah — yes,"  said  he,  and  frowned.  And  then: 
"It  leaves  you  in  hard  luck,  though,  doesn't  it,  if 
you  want  to  learn  and  can't,"  said  he. 

"It  sartin  does,  for — oh,  I  do  hanker  powerful 
to  learn!" 

"May  I  stay  here  by  the  fire  with  you  a  while 
and  get  warm,  too,"  he  asked.  (The  unaccustomed 
exercise  of  tramping  through  the  mountains  had 
kept  him  in  a  fever  heat  all  day.) 

"An'  welcome,"  she  said  cordially,  moving  aside 
a  bit,  so  that  he  could  approach  without  the  circum- 
navigation of  a  mighty  stump. 

He  could  not  tell  whether  or  not  she  had  made 
note  of  many  sweat-beads  on  his  brow  and  won- 
dered at  them  on  a  chilly  man. 

41 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Perhaps,"  said  he,  "I  might,  in  a  few  minutes, 
show  you  a  little  about  what  you  want  to  know. 
I've  been  lucky.  I  have  had  a  chance  to  learn." 

She  liked  the  way  he  said  it.  There  was  no  hint 
of  superiority  about  it.  He  was  not  "stuck  up,"  in 
his  claim  of  knowledge.  He  "had  had  a  chance," 
and  took  no  credit  to  himself  for  it.  This  pleased 
her,  won  her  confidence — if,  already,  that  had  not 
been  done  by  his  frank  face,  in  spite  of  his  fancy 
clothes  and  her  assumption  that  he  was  a  namby- 
pamby  weakling. 

"Oh — if  you  would!"  she  said,  so  eagerly  that 
it  seemed  to  him  most  pitiful. 

So,  five  minutes  later,  when  all  her  clothing  save 
her  heavy  outer  skirt,  had  been  quite  dried  there 
by  the  fire,  and  that  same  fire's  abounding  warmth 
had  sent  his  temperature  up  to  high  discomfort 
mark,  they  sat  down,  side  by  side,  upon  a  log,  the 
spelling-book  between  them,  and  he  began  the  pleas- 
ant task  of  teaching  her  her  A,  B,  Cs. 

"  'A,'  "  said  he,  "is  this  one  at  the  very  start." 

"The  peaked  one,"  said  she. 

"Yes,  that  one. 

"And  'B/  "  he  went  on,  much  amused,  but  with 
a  perfectly  grave  face,  "is  this  one  with  two  loops 
fastened,  so,  to  a  straight  stalk." 

"I  know  where  thar  is  a  bee-tree,"  she  remarked, 
irrelevantly. 

"It  will  help  recall  this  in  your  mind,"  said  he, 


42 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


maintaining  perfect  gravity,  "imagine  it  with  two 
big  loops  of  rope  fastened  to  one  side  of  it " 

"Rope  wouldn't  stick  out  that-a-way,"  said  she, 
"it  would  just  droop.  They'd  have  to  be  of  some- 
thin'  stiffen" 

"Well "  said  he,  and  tried  to  think  of  some- 
thing. 

"You  could  use  that  railroad-iron  that  I  saw 
'em  heat  red-hot  an'  bend,  down  in  the  valley,"  she 
suggested. 

"That's  it,"  said  he.  "Two  loops  of  railroad- 
iron  fastened  to  a  bee-tree"  (he  pointed)  "just  as 
these  loops,  here,  are  fastened  to  the  straight  black 
stem.  That's  'B.'  " 

"I  won't  forget,"  said  she,  her  beautiful  young 
brow  puckered  earnestly  as  she  stored  the  knowl- 
edge in  her  brain. 

"And  this  is  'C,'  "  said  he. 

"  'C,'  'C,' "  said  she.  "Jest  take  off  one  of  th' 
loops  an'  use  it  by  itself." 

"That's  so,"  said  he.     "And  here  is  T>.'  " 

"Cut  off  th'  top  th'  tree,"  said  she.  "Just  cut  it 
plumb  off,  loop  an'  all." 

He  laughed.  It  was  clear  that  she  would  be  an 
earnest  and  quick-thinking  pupil  to  whomever  had 
the  task  of  giving  her  her  education. 

As  he  looked  at  her,  now,  he  for  the  first  time 
fully  realized  her  beauty.  He  had  known,  from 
the  first,  that  she  was  most  attractive,  most  unusual 
for  a  mountain  maid ;  but  now,  laughing,  although 

as 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


her  head  was  still  bent  to  the  book,  her  big  eyes, 
sparkling  with  her  merriment,  raised  frankly  to  his 
face,  were  revelations  to  him.  He  had  not  seen 
such  eyes  before,  and  all  the  old-time  similes  for 
deep-brown  orbs  sprang  instantly  to  mind.  "Fath- 
omless pools,"  "translucent  amber" — no  simile 
would  really  describe  them.  Late  hours  had  never 
dimmed  them,  illness  had  never  made  them  heavy, 
he  was  sure  a  lie  had  never  made  them  shift  from 
their  straight  gaze  for  one  short  second.  He  had 
not  seen  such  eyes  in  cities ! 

And  from  careful  contemplation  of  the  eyes,  he 
kept  on  with  a  careful  contemplation  of  the  other 
beauties  of  his  fair  and  unexpected  pupil.  Her 
homespun  gown,  always  ill-shaped  and  now  un- 
usually protuberant  in  spots,  unusually  tight  in 
others,  because  of  its  late  wetting  and  impromptu, 
partial  drying,  could  not  hide  the  sylvan  grave  of 
her  small-boned  and  lissome  figure,  just  budding 
into  womanhood.  Her  feet,  crossed  on  the  ground, 
were  as  patrician  in  their  nakedness  as  any  blue- 
grass  belle's  in  satin  slippers.  Her  ankles,  scratched 
by  casual  thorns  and  already  beginning  to  blush 
brown  from  the  June  sun's  ardent  kisses,  were  as 
delicate  as  any  he  had  ever  seen  enmeshed  in  silken 
hose.  Her  hands,  long,  slender,  taper-fingered,  ac- 
tually dainty,  although  brown  and  roughened  by 
hard  labor,  were,  it  seemed  to  him,  better  fitted 
for  the  fingering  of  a  piano's  keys  than  for  the 
coarse  and  heavy  tasks  to  which  he  knew  they  must 

44 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


be  well  accustomed.  He  gazed  at  her  in  veritable 
wonder.  How  had  she  blossomed,  thus,  here  in 
this  wilderness? 

"Where  do  you  live?"  he  asked,  interrupting 
their  scholastic  efforts. 

"Up  thar,"  she  pointed,  and,  above,  he  could 
just  see  the  top  of  a  mud-and-stick  chimney  rise 
above  a  crag  between  the  trees. 

"Have  you  brothers  or  sisters?" 

"Ain't  got  nobody,"  she  answered,  and  to  her 
face  there  came  a  look  of  keen  resentment  rather 
than  of  sorrow  or  of  resignation.  "I'm  all  th' 
feud  left,"  she  said  simply.  She  looked  at  Lay- 
son  quickly,  wondering  if  he  would  be  surprised 
that  she  should  not  have  fought  and  also  died. 
"Girl  cain't  fight  alone,  much,"  she  went  on,  in 
hurried  explanation,  or,  rather,  quick  excuse.  "I 
might  take  a  shot  if  I  should  git  a  chanst,  but  I 
ain't  had  none,  an',  besides,  I  guess  it  air  plum 
wrong  to  kill,  even  if  there's  blood  scores  to  be 
settled  up.  I  toted  'round  a  rifle  with  me  till  last 
fall,  but  then  I  give  it  up.  They  won't  git  me — 
but  maybe  you  don't  know  what  feuds  are  in  the 
mountings,  here." 

He  was  looking  at  her  with  new  interest.  All 
his  life  he  had  heard  much  about  the  dreadful 
mountain  feuds.  As  the  bogey-man  is  used  in 
Eastern  nurseries,  so  are  the  mountaineers  used  in 
the  nurseries  of  old  Kentucky  and  of  Tennessee  to 
frighen  children  with.  Their  family  fights,  not 

45 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


less  persistent  or  less  deadly  than  the  enmities  be- 
tween the  warring  barons  of  the  Rhine  in  middle 
ages,  form  a  magnificent  foundation  for  dire  tales. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "I  know  about  the  feuds,  of 
course.  But  you " 

It  did  not  seem  possible  to  him,  even  after  her 
frank  statements,  that  this  bright  and  joyous  crea- 
ture could  in  any  way  be  joined  to  such  a  bloody 
history  as  he  knew  the  histories  of  some  of  these 
long  feuds  to  be. 

"It's  been  thirty  years  an'  better,"  said  the  girl, 
"since  the  Brierlys  and  Lindasys  had  some  trouble 
about  a  claybank  filly  an'  took  to  shootin'  one  an- 
other— shootin'  straight  an'  shootin'  often  an'  to 
kill.  For  years  th'  fight  went  on.  They  fired  on 
sight,  an*  sometimes  'twas  a  Lindsay  went  an'  some- 
times 'twas  a  Brierly.  Bimeby  there  was  just  two 
men  left — my  pappy  an'  Lem  Lindsay. 

"One  day  Lem  sent  word  to  my  pappy  to  meet 
him  without  no  weepons  an'  shake  han's  an'  make 
it  up." 

Her  face  took  on  a  look  of  bitterness  and  hate 
which  almost  made  her  hearer  shiver,  so  foreign 
was  it  to  the  fresh,  young  brightness  he  had 
watched  till  now. 

"My  daddy  come,  at  th'  ap'inted  time,"  she  went 
on  slowly,  "but  dad — he  knowed  Lem  Lindsay,  an' 
never  for  a  minute  trusted  him.  He  ast  a  friend 
of  his,  Ben  Lorey,  to  be  a  hidden  witness.  Ben 


46 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


hid  behind  a  rock  to  watch.  'Twas  right  near  here 
— just  over  thar."  She  pointed. 

"Soon  Lem,  he  come  along,  a-smilin'  like  a  Ju- 
dast,  an',  after  some  fine  speakin',  as  daddy  of- 
fered him  his  hand,  Lem  whipped  out  a  knife,  an' 
— an'  struck  it  into  my  daddy's  heart." 

The  girl's  recital  had  been  tense,  dramatic,  not 
because  she  had  tried  or  thought  to  make  it  so — 
she  had  never  learned  not  to  be  genuine — but  be- 
cause of  the  real  and  tragic  drama  in  the  tale  she 
told,  the  matter-of-course  way  in  which  she  told  it. 

It  made  Layson  shudder.  What  sort  of  people 
were  these  mountaineers  who  went  armed  to 
friendly  meetings  and  struck  down  the  men  whose 
hands  they  offered  to  clasp?  Where  was  the  other 
man  while  his  friend's  enemy  was  at  this  dreadful 
work? 

"But  Lorey,"  said  her  fascinated  listener,  "the 
man  who  was  in  hiding  as  a  witness,  made  him  pay 
for  his  outrageous  act!" 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  with  drooping  head.  "He 
stepped  out  from  behind  the  rock  where  he  was 
hidin',  an'  he  pulled  the  trigger  of  his  rifle.  But 
luck  was  dead  against  us  that  day.  Wet  powder 
— somethin' — nobody  knows  what.  The  gun  did 
not  go  off.  Before  he  got  it  well  down  from  his 
shoulder  so's  to  find  out  what  it  was  that  ailed  it, 
Lem  Lindsay  was  upon  him  like  a  mountain  lion 
— an'  he  laid  him  thar  beside  my  daddy.  He  didn't 
mean  that  there  should  be  no  witnesses." 

47 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


She  paused  so  long  that  Layson  was  about  to 
speak,  feeling  the  silence  troublesome  and  painful, 
but  before  he  had  decided  what  to  say  in  comment 
on  a  tale  so  dreadful,  she  went  on: 

"He  didn't  mean  there  should  be  no  witnesses, 
Lem  Lindsay  didn't,  but  as  it  happened  there  was 
two.  My  mother,  me  clasped  in  her  arms,  had 
stole  after  my  daddy,  fearin'  that  somethin'  wicked 
would  come  out  o'  that  there  meetin'  with  his  old- 
time  enemy.  She  spoke  up  sudden,  an'  surprised 
th'  murderer,  standin'  there  by  th'  two  poor  men 
he'd  killed.  At  first  it  scared  him.  I  can't  re- 
member every  thin'  about  that  awful  day,  but  I  can 
see  Lem  Lindsay's  face  as  she  screamed  at  him,  just 
as  plain  this  minute  as  I  seed  it  then.  I'll  never 
forget  that  look  if  I  live  a  thousand  years! 

"At  first  he  was  struck  dumb,  but  then  that 
passed.  He  give  a  yell  of  rage  an'  started  toward 
us  on  th'  run.  She  jumped,  with  me  a-hinderin' 
her.  Like  a  mountain  deer  she  run,  in  spite  of 
that.  She  was  lighter  on  her  feet  than  he  was 
upon  his,  an'  soon  outdistanced  him.  He  hadn't 
stopped  to  pick  his  rifle  up — he  only  had  th'  knife 
he'd  done  th'  killin'  with,  so  he  couldn't  do  what 
he'd  'a'  liked  to  done — shoot  down  a  woman  an' 
a  baby! 

"We  lived  where  I  live  now,  alone,  an'  then,  as 
now,  there  was  a  little  bridge  that  took  th'  foot- 
path over  th'  deep  gully.  Them  days  was  wicked 
ones  in  these  here  mountains,  an'  daddy'd  had  that 

48 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


foot-bridge  fixed  so  it  would  raise.  My  mother 
just  had  time  to  pull  it  up,  when  we  had  crossed, 
before  Lem  Lindsay  reached  there.  He  stopped, 
to  keep  from  fallin'  in  the  gully,  but  stood  there, 
shakin'  his  bare  fist  an'  swearin'  that  he'd  kill  us 
yet.  But  that  he  couldn't  do.  Folks  was  mightily 
roused,  and  he  had  to  leave  th'  mountings,  then  an' 
thar,  an'  ain't  been  in  'em  since,  so  far  as  anybody 
knows." 

Her  brows  drew  down  upon  her  eyes.  Her 
sweet  mouth  hardened.  "He'd  better  never 
come!"  she  added,  grimly. 

After  a  moment's  pause  she  went  on,  slowly: 
"So,  now,  here  we  be — Joe  Lorey,  Ben's  son,  an' 
me.  My  mother  died,  you  see,  not  very  many 
years  after  Lindsay  'd  killed  my  daddy.  Seein'  of 
it  done,  that  way,  had  been  too  much  for  her.  I 
reckon  seein'  it  would  have  killed  me,  too,  if  I'd 
been  more'n  a  baby,  but  I  wasn't,  an'  lived  through 
it.  Ben's  lived  here,  workin'  his  little  mounting 
farm,  an' — an' " 

She  hesitated,  evidently  ill  at  ease,  strangely 
stammering  over  an  apparently  simple  and  unim- 
portant statement  of  the  condition  of  her  fellow 
orphan.  She  changed  color  slightly.  Layson, 
watching  her,  decided  that  the  son  of  the  one  vic- 
tim must  be  the  sweetheart  of  the  daughter  of  the 
other,  and  would  have  smiled  had  not  the  very 
thought,  to  his  surprise,  annoyed  him  unaccount- 
ably. Whether  that  was  what  had  caused  her 

49 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


stammering,  he  could  not  quite  decide,  although  he 
gave  the  matter  an  absurd  amount  of  thought.  She 
went  on  quickly: 

"He's  lived  here,  workin'  of  his  little  mounting 
farm  an' — an' — an'  doin'  jobs  aroun',  an'  such,  an' 
I've  lived  here,  a-workin'  mine,  a  little,  but  not 
much.  After  my  mother  died  there  was  some 
folks  down  in  th'  valley  took  keer  of  me  for  a 
while,  but  then  they  moved  away,  an'  I  was  old 
enough  to  want  things  bad,  an'  what  I  wanted  was 
to  come  back  here,  where  I  could  see  th'  place 
where  mother  an'  my  daddy  had  both  loved  me  an' 
been  happy.  I've  got  some  land  down  in  th'  val- 
ley— fifty  acres  o'  fine  pasture — but  I  never  cared 
to  live  down  there.  Th'  rent  I  get  for  that  land 
makes  me  rich — I  ain't  never  wanted  for  a  single 
thing  but  just  th'  love  an'  carin'  that  my  daddy 
an'  my  mother  would  'a'  give  me  if  that  wicked 
man  hadn't  killed  'em  both.  For  he  did  kill  my 
mother,  just  as  much  as  he  killed  daddy.  She  died 
o'  that  an'  that  alone." 

Again  she  fell  into  a  silence  for  a  time,  looking 
out  at  the  tremendous  prospect  spread  before  them, 
quite  unseeing. 

"Oh,"  she  went  on,  at  length,  her  face  again 
darkened  by  a  frown,  her  small  hands  clenched, 
every  muscle  of  her  lithe  young  body  drawn  as 
taut  as  a  wild  animal's  before  a  spring.  "I  some- 
times feel  as  if  I'd  like  to  do  as  other  mountain 
women  have  been  known  to  do  when  killin'  of  that 

50 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


sort  has  blackened  all  their  lives — I  sometimes  feel 
as  if  I'd  like  to  take  a  rifle  in  my  elbow  an'  go 
lookin'  for  that  man — go  lookin'  for  him  in  th' 
mountings,  in  th'  lowlands,  anywhere — even  if  I 
had  to  cross  th'  oceans  that  they  tell  about,  in  or- 
der to  come  up  with  him !" 

Her  voice  had  been  intensely  vibrant  with  strong 
passion  as  she  said  this,  and  her  quivering  form 
told  even  plainer  how  deep-seated  was  the  hate 
that  gave  birth  to  her  words.  But  soon  she  put 
all  this  excitement  from  her  and  dropped  her  hands 
in  a  loose  gesture  of  hopeless  relaxation. 

"But  I  know  such  thoughts  are  foolish,"  she  said 
drearily.  "He  got  away.  A  girl  can't  carry  on  a 
feud  alone,  nohow.  There's  nothin'  I  can  do." 

Again,  now,  with  a  passing  thought,  her  fea- 
tures lighted  as  another  maiden's,  whose  young  life 
had  been  cast  by  fate  in  gentler  places  might  have 
lighted  at  the  thought  of  some  great  pleasure  pend- 
ing in  the  future. 

"There  is  a  chance,  though,"  she  said,  with  a 
fierce  joy,  "that  Lem  Lindsay,  if  he  is  alive,  '11  git 
th'  bullet  that  he  earned  that  day.  Joe  Lorey's 
livin' — that's  Ben's  son — an'  he — well,  maybe,  some 
time — ah,  he  can  shoot  as  straight  as  anybody  in 
these  mountings!" 

The  look  of  a  young  tigress  was  on  her  face. 

It  made  the  young  man  who  was  listening  to  her 
shudder — the  look  upon  her  face,  the  voice  with 

which  she  said  "And  he  can  shoot  as  straight  as 

l 

51 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


anybody  in  these  mountings!"  For  a  second  it  re- 
volted him.  Then,  getting  a  fairer  point  of  view, 
he  smiled  at  her  with  a  deep  sympathy,  and  waited. 

He  had  not  to  wait  long  before  a  gentler  mood 
held  dominance.  It  came,  indeed,  almost  at  once. 

"No,"  she  said  slowly,  "a  girl  can't  carry  on  a 
feud  alone,  nohow.  .  .  .  And,  somehow,  when 
I  think  of  it  most  times,  I  really  don't  want  to. 
It's  only  now  an'  then  I  get  stirred  up,  like  this. 
Most  times  I'd  rather  learn  than — go  on  fightin' 
like  we-all  always  have.  .  .  .  I'd  rather  learn, 
somehow.  .  .  .  An' — an' — an'  that's  been 
mighty  hard — is  mighty  hard" 

"You — haven't  had  much  chance,"  said  he,  look- 
ing at  her  pityingly. 

She  gave  him  a  quick  glance.  Had  she  really 
thought  he  pitied  her  she  would  have  bitterly  re- 
sented it. 

"Had  th'  same  chance  other  mounting  girls 
have,"  she  said  quickly,  defending,  not  herself,  but 
her  country  and  her  people. 

She  stood,  now,  at  a  distance  from  the  fire,  for 
it  was  blazing  merrily,  but  her  face  was  flushed 
by  its  radiant  heat,  its  lurid  blaze  made  a  fine  back- 
ground for  the  supple,  swaying  beauty  of  her  slim 
young  body.  She  raised  her  arms  high,  high  above 
her  head,  with  that  same  genuineness  of  gesture, 
graceful  and  appealing,  which  he  had  seen  in  all 
her  movements  from  the  first  and  then  clasped  them 
at  her  breast. 

52 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"But  oh,"  said  she,  "somehow,  I  want  to  learn, 
now,  terrible!" 

"Let  me  help  you  while  I'm  in  the  mountains," 
he  replied,  impulsively.  "I'll  be  glad  to  help  you 
every  day." 

"Would  you?"  she  said.  "I  would  be  powerful 
thankful!"  Her  bright  eyes  expressed  the  grati- 
tude she  felt. 

While  they  had  talked  a  strange  paradox  had 
come  about  there  by  the  fire  without  their  notice. 
The  long,  black  out-cropping  of  rock  against  which 
they  had  brought  the  old  man's  blaze  to  life,  had, 
instead  of  keeping  the  fire  from  spreading  to  the 
undergrowth,  strangely  permitted  it  to  pass. 

It  was  the  girl  who  first  discovered  this.  She 
sprang  up  from  her  place  with  a  startled  exclama- 
tion. 

"Oh,"  said  she,  "th'  fire  is  spreadin'!" 

He  rose  quickly  to  his  feet. 


'53 


CHAPTER  III 

They  were  appalled  by  the  predicament  in  which 
they  found  themselves.  The  thing  seemed  quite 
mysterious. 

The  rock  against  which  the  fire  had  been  built 
was  all  aglow,  as  if  it  had  been  heated  in  a  fur- 
nace till  red  hot — strange  circumstance;  one  that 
would  have  fascinated  Layton  into  elaborate  in- 
vestigation had  he  had  the  time  to  think  about  it 
— and,  beyond  it,  evidently  communicated  through 
it  as  a  link,  the  rustling  leaves  of  the  past  autumn, 
their  surface  layers  sun-dried,  were  bursting  into 
glittering  little  points  of  flame  all  about  the  narrow 
ledge  of  rock  on  which  they  were  standing.  As 
they  gazed,  before  Layson  could  rush  forward  to 
stamp  out  these  sparkling  perils,  the  fire  had  spread, 
as  the  girl,  wise  in  the  direful  ways  of  brush-fires, 
had  known  at  once  that  it  would  spread,  to  the  en- 
circling pine-tops,  left  in  a  tinder  barricade  about 
the  clearing  by  the  sawyers  and  the  axemen. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  distressed,  "we're  ketched!" 

54 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Layson,  less  conscious  of  their  peril  because  less 
well  informed  as  to  the  almost  explosive  inflam- 
mability of  dry  pine-tops,  took  the  matter  less  seri- 
ously. "\Ye'll  get  out,  all  right,"  said  he.  "Don't 
worry." 

"There's  times  to  worry,"  said  the  girl,  "an'  this, 
I  reckon — well,  it's  one  of  'em." 

As  if  to  prove  the  truth  of  what  she  said,  with  a 
burst  almost  like  that  of  flame's  leap  along  a  pow- 
der-line, the  fire  caught  one  resinous  pine-top  after 
another  with  a  crackling  rush  which  was  not  only 
fearfully  apparent  to  the  eye,  but  also  ominously  au- 
dible. Within  ten  seconds  the  pair  were  ringed  by 
sound  like  that  of  crackling  musketry  upon  a  battle- 
field, and  by  a  pyrotechnic  spectacle  of  terrifying 
magnitude.  Layson  had  heard  guns  pop  in  un- 
trained volleys  at  State  Guard  manoeuvres,  and  was 
instantly  impressed  by  the  amazing  similarity  of 
sound,  but  he  had  never  in  his  life  seen  anything 
to  be  compared  to  the  towering  ring  of  flame-wall 
wThich  almost  instantly  encircled  them.  He  lost, 
perhaps,  a  minute,  in  astonished  contemplation  of 
the  situation.  Then  realization  of  their  peril  burst 
upon  him  with  a  rush.  To  wrait  there,  where  they 
were,  too  evidently  meant  certain  death.  Not  only 
would  the  pulsing  heat  from  the  pine-tops  already 
burning  soon  become  unendurable,  but  there  was 
enough  of  tindrous  litter  strewn  about  the  entire 
area  of  the  little  clearing  to  make  it  horribly  ap- 
parent to  him  that,  in  a  moment,  it  would  all  be- 

55 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


come  a  bed  of  glittering  flame.  He  gazed  at  the 
menacing,  encroaching  fire,  appalled. 

Madge,  understanding  the  desperation  of  their 
situation  even  better  than  he  did,  knowing,  too,  that 
a  stranger  could,  indeed,  scarce  conceive  the  deadly 
peril  of  it,  was,  at  first,  the  cooler  of  the  two. 
Her  life  there  in  the  mountains,  where  any  man 
she  knew  might  meet,  and  her  own  father  had  met, 
death  stalking  with  a  rifle  in  his  bended  elbow,  or 
a  knife  clutched  in  his  clenched  hand,  had  given  her 
a  certain  poise  in  time  of  peril,  an  admirable  self- 
control,  quick  wits,  firm  nerves.  She  felt  that  there 
was  small  chance  of  escape,  yet  she  was  not  visibly 
terrified,  and  made  no  outcry. 

Had  she  been  caught,  thus,  with  a  mountaineer 
(which  scarcely  could  have  happened)  she  would 
have  felt  small  apprehension.  Learned  in  the  perils 
of  the  woods,  heavy-booted,  sturdy-legged,  a  na- 
tive, like  Joe  Lorey,  for  example,  would,  she  felt 
quite  certain,  have  been  able  to  effect  her  rescue. 
But  the  chances,  she  decided,  were  practically  nil, 
with  this  untrained  "foreigner"  as  her  companion. 
She  had  been  told  that  "blue-grass  folks"  were 
lacking  in  strong  nerves  and  prone  to  panic  if  real 
danger  threatened.  Barefooted  as  she  was,  there 
was  little  she,  herself,  could  do.  She  knew  that  she 
would  quickly  fall  unconscious  from  intolerable 
pain  if  she  so  much  as  tried  to  make  a  dash  for 
safety.  That  she  was  badly  frightened  she  would 
have  readily  admitted,  that  she  was  panic-stricken 

56 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


none  who  looked  at  her  could,  for  a  moment, 
dream. 

She  glanced  at  Layson  with  a  curiosity  which 
was  almost  calm,  as,  for  a  moment  quite  bewil- 
dered, he  ran  from  side  to  side  of  their  rapidly 
narrowing  space  of  safety,  endeavoring  to  find  a 
weak  spot  in  the  wall  of  flames  through  which  they 
might  escape,  but  failing  everywhere.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  thought  that  he  had  lost  his  head,  and 
thus  proved  all  too  true  those  tales  which  she  had 
heard  of  "foreigners."  It  was  almost  as  one  race 
gazing  at  another  suffering  ordeal  in  test,  that  she 
observed  his  every  movement,  each  detail  of  his 
facial  play.  While  they  had  sat  there  on  the  log, 
intent  upon  their  work  above  her  spelling-book,  she 
had  wondered  if  the  harsh,  uncharitable  mountain 
judgment  of  the  "foreigners"  had  not  been  too 
merciless.  Now  she  felt  that  she  began  to  see  its 
justification.  The  man,  undoubtedly,  she  thought, 
showed  an  unmanly  panic. 

"No  use  tryin'  to  get  out  that-a-way,"  she  said 
calmly.  "You'd  better " 

Even  as  she  spoke,  and  before  her  words  could 
possibly  have  influenced  him,  she  saw  a  change 
come  over  him.  The  signs  of  fear,  which  had  so 
displeased  her,  faded  from  his  actions  and  his  facial 
play.  Placed  in  unusual,  unexpected  circumstances, 
for  a  second  he  had  been  bewildered,  but,  as  soon 
as  opportunity  had  come  for  gathering  of  wits,  he 
found  composure,  coolness,  nerve.  She  did  not 

57 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


even  finish  out  her  sentence.  Instead,  her  thoughts 
turned  to  that  acme  of  breeding,  nerve,  endurance 
and  high  spirit  dear  to  all  Kentuckians,  the  race 
horse.  "He's  found  his  feet!"  she  thought. 

The  man  impressed  her,  now,  even  more  than 
when,  with  courtesy,  such  as  she  had  never  known, 
tact  which  had  maintained  her  comfort  when  she 
might  have  felt  humiliated,  learning  which  to  her 
seemed  marvellous,  he  had  offered  her  the  key  to 
learning's  mysteries  upon  the  log.  She  saw  that  he 
had  quickly  won  a  mighty  victory  over  self.  She 
thought  of  tales  which  she  had  heard  by  mountain 
fireplaces  about  "bad  men,"  who,  when  they  first 
had  heard  a  bullet's  song,  had  dodged  and  whi- 
tened, only  to  recover  quickly  and  be  nerved  to  peril 
evermore  thereafter.  Her  doubt  of  Layson  fell 
away  completely.  Instead  of  thinking  of  him  as  of 
one  whose  manhood  is  inferior  to  that  of  the  rough 
mountaineers  she  knew,  perforce  she  saw  in  him 
superiorities.  There  was  not  the  least  sign  of 
bragadocio,  of  counterfeit,  about  his  new-found 
calm.  It  was,  she  recognized  at  once,  entirely  gen- 
uine. "Rattled  for  a  minute,"  she  thought,  wisely, 
again  amending  her  first  judgment,  "but  cooler, 
now,  than  cucumbers." 

She  looked  gravely  at  him  as  he  moved  about 
investigating,  not  excitedly,  alertly,  full  of  the 
necessary  business  of  escape.  "Looks  bad,  don't 
it?"  she  said  gravely.  "Like  powder,  them  thar 
pine-tops." 

58 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Oh,  we'll  get  out  all  right,"  he  answered,  easily, 
and  now  she  felt  a  comfort  in  the  fact  that  he  was 
intentionally  minimizing  danger  to  give  confidence 
to  the  supposed  weakness  of  her  sex. 

"Maybe  so  an'  maybe  not,"  said  she,  discovering, 
to  her  disgust,  that  it  was  hard,  now  that  he  was 
showing  strength,  to  keep  the  panic  tremolo  from 
her  own  voice. 

The  fire  had,  by  this  time,  encircled  them  com- 
pletely, and  from  a  hundred  points  was  running  in 
toward  them  on  tinder  lines  of  dry  pine-needles 
and  old  leaves,  flashing  at  them  viciously  along  the 
crisp,  dry  surface  of  old  moss  and  lichens  on  the 
rocks.  A  wind  had  suddenly  arisen,  born,  no 
doubt,  of  the  fire's  own  mighty  draft.  Bits  of 
blazing  light  wood,  small,  burning  branches, 
myriads  of  flaming  oak  leaves  and  pine-cones  were 
swept  up  from  the  ring  of  fire  about  them,  in  the 
chimney  of  the  blaze,  to  lose  their  impetus  only  at 
a  mighty  height,  and  then  fall  slowly,  threaten- 
ingly down  within  the  burning  ring.  So  plenti- 
ful were  these  little,  vicious  menaces,  that,  within 
another  minute,  they  were  dodging  them  contin- 
ually. 

He  now  took  his  place  close  by  her  side  and 
gazed  upon  the  spectacle,  calm-eyed,  as  if  he  found 
it  interesting  rather  more  than  terrifying. 

"Oh,  we'll  get  out,  all  right,"  said  he,  again. 

And  then  he  turned  to  her  in  frank  and  unex- 
cited  inquiry.  To  her  increased  disgust  the  sobs 

59 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


of  growing  fear  convulsed  her  throat.  She  fought 
them  back  and  listened  to  his  question. 

"You  know  more  about  woods-fires  than  I  do," 
he  said  evenly.  "Better  tell  me  what  to  do,  eh?" 

This  confession  of  his  ignorance  strengthened 
her  growing  confidence  in  him  instead  of  weaken- 
ing it.  The  fact  that  he  could  ask  advice  so  calmly 
made  her  think  that,  probably,  he  would  be  calm  in 
taking  it  if  she  could  offer  it.  It  steadied  her  and 
helped  her  think.  And  then  she  saw  him  spring, 
and,  actually  writh  a  smile,  strike  in  the  air  above 
her  head,  diverting  from  its  downward  path  which 
would  have  landed  it  upon  her,  a  flaming  fragment 
of  pine-top  fully  five  feet  long.  He  actually 
laughed. 

"Like  handball,"  he  said  cheerily.  "Don't  worry. 
I  won't  let  anything  fall  on  you.  You  just— 
think!" 

Her  panic,  now,  had  vanished  as  by  magic.  In- 
stantly she  really  ceased  to  worry.  He  would  not 
let  fire  fall  on  her.  He  would  get  her  out  of  that. 
She  was  certain  of  it.  She  could  think — calmly 
and  with  care. 

But  she  could  not  think  of  a  way  out — at  least 
she  could  not  think  of  a  way  out  for  her.  Bare- 
footed as  she  was,  she  scarcely  could  expect  to  find, 
even  in  her  strong  young  body,  strength  enough 
to  endure  the  pain  of  treading,  as  she  would  be 
forced  to  if  she  made  a  dash,  on  an  almost  un- 
broken bed  of  glowing  coals  and  smouldering  moss 

60 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


ten  yards  in  width.  He,  with  his  heavy  boots, 
might  manage  it.  Therefore  there  was  hope  for 
him;  but  for  her  to  try  it  would  be  madness. 

Had  he  been  a  sturdy  mountaineer,  she  wofully 
reflected — having  found  a  detail  of  lowland  in- 
feriority which,  she  was  quite  certain,  would  not 
be  dispelled  as  had  some  others — he  might,  in  such 
a  desperate  case,  have  summoned  strength  to  "tote" 
her  through,  although  she  scarcely  thought  Joe 
Lorey,  the  best  man  whom  she  knew,  could  really 
do  it;  still  there  would  have  been  the  possibility. 
But  no  weak-muscled  "foreigner,"  pap-nurtured  in 
the  lowlands,  could,  she  knew,  of  course,  accom- 
plish such  a  feat.  It  was  fine  to  know  things,  as 
he  did,  but  muscle  was  what  counted  now!  In 
queer,  impersonal  reflection,  born,  doubtless,  of  a 
dumb  hysteria,  she  reflected  bitterly  upon  the 
healthy  weight  of  her  own  mountain-nourished 
person. 

"If  I  was  only  like  them  triflin'  blue-grass  gals 
Joe  tells  about,"  she  thought,  "made  up  of  nothin' 
or  a  little  less,  it  wouldn't  be  no  trick  to  tote  me 
outen  this;  but  dellaw!  I'm  just  as  much  as  that 
there  ox  of  mine  feels  right  to  carry  when  I  got  a 
couple  bags  o'  grist  on,  back  an'  front." 

She  looked  around  the  ring  of  fire,  dull-eyed, 
disheartened.  "Ain't  no  use,"  said  she,  aloud. 

He  seemed  to  almost  lose  his  temper.  "Use?" 
said  he,  "of  course  there's  use!  You  tell  me  where 
the  best  chance  is  and  we'll  fight  out,  ail  right." 

61 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


She  did  not  even  answer;  the  situation  seemed 
to  her  so  wholly  hopeless. 

He  acted,  then,  without  further  question.  Hastily 
throwing  the  loop  of  his  gun  over  his  shoulder,  he 
crooked  one  arm  beneath  her  much-astonished 
knees,  clasped  another  tight  about  her  waist,  and 
started  for  the  fire  with  a  determined  spring. 

"No,  no;  not  there!"  she  screamed,  astonished, 
terrified,  and  yet,  withal,  delighted  by  the  unex- 
pected hardness  of  the  muscles  in  the  arms  which 
held  her,  the  unexpected  spring  in  the  apparently 
not  overburdened  limbs  which  bore  them  up,  the 
unexpected  nerve,  determination  of  the  man's  in- 
itiative. 

This  "foreigner,"  it  seemed,  was  not  so  weak, 
was  not  so  namby-pamby  as  his  class  had  been  de- 
scribed to  be.  She  did  not  struggle  in  the  circling 
arms,  she  only  made  an  explanation. 

"That's  hard  wood,  burnin'  there,"  said  she. 
"Burnin'  hard  wood's  harder  to  break  through  an' 
hotter,  too.  Try  some  place  where  it's  pine.  .  .  . 
But  you  can't  never  do  it!" 

"Where?"  said  he.  "Show  me!  You  know,  I 
don't." 

"Well — over  thar,"  she  said,  and  indicated,  with 
a  pointing  hand,  the  place  in  the  encircling  con- 
flagration where  passage  seemed  least  hopeless. 

At  that  moment  fire  blazed  high  there,  but  her 
knowing  eye  told  her  that  it  was  largely  flaring 


62 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


needles,  brittle  twigs,  and  easily  dissipated  cones 
which  fed  it. 

A  few  great  springs,  such  as  she  now  felt  that 
the  quivering,  eager  limbs  which  held  her,  were  pos- 
sessed of  the  ability  to  make,  might  take  them 
through  this  flimsiest  spot  in  the  terrible  barricade. 
The  crackling,  burning  branches  of  the  dead  pine- 
tops  would  be  likely  to  give  way  before  them,  not 
to  trip  them  up,  as  oak  would,  to  thrust  them,  fall- 
ing, on  the  bed  of  glowing  coals  fast  forming  on 
the  ground. 

"Over  thar,"  said  she,  again.  "I  reckon  that's 
the  best  place — but  you  cain't " 

With  the  new  respect  the  knowledge  of  his 
trained  and  ready  muscles  brought  to  her,  arose 
in  her  a  towering  admiration  of  him.  When  she 
first  had  seen  him,  there  beside  the  pool,  she  defi- 
nitely had  liked  him;  while  they  had  delved  into 
the  mysteries  of  the  alphabet  upon  the  log  his  pa- 
tient, willing,  helpful  kindness  had  increased  her 
prepossession  in  his  favor.  It  was  only  when, 
after  disaster  had  so  swiftly,  so  unexpectedly,  de- 
scended on  them  and  she  had  compared  his  body, 
made  apparently  more  slender  in  comparison  to  the 
rude-limbed  mountaineers  she  knew  than  it  was 
really  by  tight-fitting  knickerbockers  and  golf- 
stockings  and  its  well-cut  shooting-jacket,  that  she 
had  lost  confidence  in  him.  But  now  his  muscles, 
closing  round  her,  seemed  like  thews  of  steel.  She 
had  never  heard  of  athletes,  she  did  not  dream  that 

63 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


muscle-building  is  a  part  of  modern  education — 
that  alertness  on  the  baseball,  polo,  football  fields, 
count  quite  as  much,  at  least  in  college  popularity, 
as  ready  tongues  and  agile  wits.  The  last  fibres  of 
destroyed  respect  for  him  rebuilt  themselves  upon 
the  minute.  Her  confidence  returned  completely  in 
a  sudden  flash — quicker  than  the  magic  leapings  of 
the  fire  about  them.  She  knew  that  he  would  take 
her  through  to  safety. 

A  thought  occurred  to  her,  for,  suddenly,  with 
the  new  respect  for  him  the  knowledge  of  his 
trained  and  ready  muscles  gave  her,  arose  a  new 
consideration  for  him,  almost  motherly.  He  would 
be  breasting  dreadful  peril  in  the  passage  of  the 
flames — peril  to  his  eyes  and  face  and  clinging, 
tight-clasped  hands  especially.  And  round  her 
limbs  there  was  the  means  of  saving  him,  in  part, 
from  it. 

"You  let  me  down  for  just  a  minute,"  she  said 
briefly.  "Just  a  minute.  Then  I'll  let  you  take  me 
up  an'  carry  me.  An'  you  can  do  it,  too!  You're 
strong,  ain't  you?" 

Wondering,  he  released  his  hold  on  her,  and  she 
slid  to  her  feet.  Then,  with  a  quick  movement, 
she  unbuttoned  the  wafstband  of  her  outer  skirt, 
and,  letting  it  slip  down  to  the  ground,  stepped  out 
of  it. 

"Ain't  it  lucky  I  got  wet?"  said  she,  and  smiled. 
"It  ain't  more'n  half  dry  yet.  The  under  one  is 


A    MIGHTY   LEAP   HAD   CARRIED    THEM    BEYUNU    THK   BLAZING    BARRIER. 

Page  65. 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


wet,  too,  and  both  of  'em  are  wool — and  that  don't 
burn  like  cotton  would. 

"Now  pick  me  up  again  an'  I'll  just  fix  this  skirt 
— so — there — now — that's  the  way.  Can  you  see, 
now?  All  right?  Well,  it'll  keep  th'  fire  from 
catchin'  in  our  hair,  an'  it'll  save  your  eyes." 

He  laughed.  "That's  fine !"  said  he,  and,  almost 
before  she  realized  that  they  were  under  way,  a 
mighty  leap  had  taken  them  close  to  the  blazing 
barrier,  another  one  had  landed  them  within  its 
very  midst,  another  one  had  carried  them  beyond 
its  greatest  menace,  another  had  delivered  them 
from  actual  peril,  leaving  them  on  ground  where 
filmy  grass,  dead  leaves,  dry  needles,  had  blazed 
quickly,  with  a  consuming  flash,  and,  utterly  and  al- 
most instantly  destroyed,  had  left  behind  them  only 
thin,  hot  ash,  devoid  of  peril,  scarce  to  be  consid- 
ered. 

But  he  did  not  let  her  feet  touch  ground  again 
until  they  were  even  beyond  this.  Finally,  when 
they  reached  a  rocky  "barren,"  where  the  little  fire 
had  found  no  fuel,  she  felt  his  tautened  thews 
relax. 

Instantly  she  slipped  from  his  encircling  arms, 
and  he  began  to  whip  the  flames  in  grass  and  little 
brush  close  to  them  with  the  dampened  skirt. 
Even  on  the  little  isle  of  safety  they  found  it 
necessary,  still,  to  agilely  avoid  innumerable  bits  of 
floating  "light-wood"  brands,  and,  for  a  time,  to 
beat,  beat  at  the  hungry  little  flames  around  them, 

65 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


but,  at  last,  the  danger  was  all  over,  and  they  stood 
there,  looking  at  each  other,  with  a  sense  of  great 
relief.  He  smiled,  breathing  hard,  but  not  ex- 
hausted. 

"Tight  work,  eh?"  he  said  cheerfully. 

"Jest  wonderful!"  she  answered,  with  a  ready 
tribute. 

Then  the  memory  of  his  embracing  arm,  the  fact 
that  her  own  arms  had  been  as  tightly  clasped  about 
his  neck,  came  to  her  with  a  rush,  although,  while 
they  had  raced  across  the  burning  strip  she  had  not 
thought  of  these  things.  Shyness  stirred  in  her 
almost  as  definitely  as  it  had  while  she  lay  hidden 
at  the  pool's  mouth,  watching  him  and  tingling  with 
shamed  thrills  at  thought  of  her  amazing  plight 
there.  No  man  had  ever  had  his  arms  about  her 
in  her  life  before. 

But,  even  while  she  blushed  and  thrilled  with  this 
embarrassment,  she  fought  to  put  it  from  her.  He, 
evidently,  had  not  thought  of  it  at  all,  was,  now, 
not  thinking  of  it.  What  had  been  done  had  been 
a  part  of  the  day's  work,  a  quick  move,  made  in 
an  emergency,  when  nothing  else  would  serve.  His 
attitude  restored  her  own  composure. 

And  gratitude  welled  in  her.  She  struggled  to 
find  words  for  it. 

"I — I'm  much  obleeged  to  you,"  were  all  she 
found,  and  she  was  conscious  of  their  most  com- 
plete inadequacy. 

"No  reason  why  you  should  be,"  he  said  gayly. 

66 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"We  got  caught  in  a  tight  place,  that's  all,  and  we 
helped  one  another  out  of  it." 

She  laughed  derisively.  "I  helped  you  out  a  lot, 
now  didn't  I?"  she  asked. 

Again  she  made  a  survey  of  him,  standing  where 
he  had  been  when  he  had  loosed  his  hold  of  her, 
unwearied,  smiling,  and  she  looked  with  actual 
wonder.  Good  clothes  and  careful  speech  were 
not,  of  a  necessity,  the  outward  signs  of  weaklings, 
it  appeared! 

Joe  Lorey,  in  a  dozen  talks  with  her,  had  told 
her  that  they  were.  She  did  not  understand  that 
this  had  been  a  clumsy  and  short-sighted  strategy, 
that,  finding  her  more  difficult  than  other  mountain 
girls — the  handsome,  sturdy  young  hill-dweller  had 
not  been  without  his  conquests  among  the  maidens 
of  his  kind;  only  Madge  had  baffled  him — he  had 
feared  that,  now  when  the  railroad  building  in  the 
valley  had  brought  so  many  "foreigners"  into  the 
neighborhood,  one  of  them  might  fascinate  her, 
and  it  had  been  to  guard  against  this,  as  well 
as  he  was  able,  that  he  had  spoken  slightingly  of 
the  whole  class.  He  had  delighted  in  repeating 
to  her  tales  belittling  them,  deriding  them,  and  she, 
of  course,  had  quite  believed  his  stories. 

But  her  experience  with  this  one  had  not  justi- 
fied that  point  of  view,  and  the  matter  largely  oc- 
cupied her  thoughts  as  they  walked  slowly  through 
the  thickets  of  a  bit  of  "second-growth"  beyond  the 
fire,  which,  stopped  by  the  rocky  "barrens,"  was 

67 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


dying  out  behind  them.  Her  companion  was,  to 
her,  an  utterly  new  sort  of  being,  not  better  trained 
in  mind  alone,  but  better  trained  in  body  than  any 
mountaineer  she  knew ;  doubtless  ignorant  of  many 
details  of  woods-life  which  would  be  known  to 
any  child  there  in  the  mountains,  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  even  more  resourceful,  daring,  quick,  than 
mountain  men  would  have  been,  similarly  placed, 
and,  to  her  amazement,  physically  stronger,  too! 

The  fact  that  he  had  shown  himself  more 
thoughtful  of  and  courteous  to  her  than  any  other 
man  had  ever  been  before,  made  its  impression,  but 
a  slighter  one.  Hers  were  the  instincts  of  true 
wisdom,  and  she  valued  these  things  less  than 
many  of  her  city  sisters  might,  although  she  val- 
ued them,  of  course.  She  looked  slyly,  wonder- 
ingly  at  him.  He  was  a  very  pleasant,  very  ad- 
mirable sort  of  creature — this  visitor  from  the  un- 
known, outside  world.  She  quite  decided  that  she 
did  not  even  think  his  knickerbockers  foolish, 
after  all. 

For  a  moment,  even  now,  she  thrilled  unpleas- 
antly with  a  mean  suspicion  that  he  might  be  a 
"revenuer,"  after  all,  and  have  done  the  good 
things  he  had  done  as  a  part  of  that  infernal  craft 
which  revenuers  sometimes  showed  when  search- 
ing for  the  hidden  stills  where  "moonshine"  whisky 
is  illegally  produced  among  the  mountains ;  but  she 
put  this  thought  out  of  her  heart,  indignantly,  al- 
most as  quickly  as  it  came  to  her.  Instinctively  she 

68 


7Ar  OLD  KENTUCKY 


felt  quite  certain  that  duplicity  did  not  form  any 
portion  of  his  nature.  They  had  not  been  traitor's 
arms  which  had  so  bravely  (and  so  firmly)  clasped 
her  for  the  quick  and  risky  dash  across  that  terri- 
fying belt  of  fire! 

"No,"  said  she,  determined  to  give  him  fullest 
measure  of  due  credit,  "I  didn't  help  you  none.  I 
didn't  help  you  none — an'  you  did  what  I  don't  be- 
lieve any  other  man  I  ever  knew  could  do. 
I'm " 

Again  she  paused,  again  at  loss  for  words,  again 
the  quest  failed  wholly. 

"I'm  much  obleeged,"  said  she. 

Then,  suddenly,  the  thought  came  to  her  of  that 
other  and  less  prepossessing  "foreigner"  whom,  that 
day,  she  had  seen  there  in  her  mountains.  She  de- 
scribed him  carefully  to  Lay  son,  and  asked  if  he 
could  guess  who  he  had  been  and  what  his  business 
could  have  been.  Descriptions  are  a  sorry  basis  for 
the  recognition  of  a  person  thought  to  be  far  miles 
away,  a  person  unassociated  in  one's  mind  with 
the  surroundings  he  has  suddenly  appeared  in ;  and, 
therefore,  Layson,  who  really  knew  the  man  and 
who,  had  he  identified  him  with  the  unknown  vis- 
itor, would  have  been  surprised,  intensely  curious, 
and,  possibly,  suspicious,  could  offer  her  no  clue  to 
his  identity. 


CHAPTER  IV 

That  same  "foreigner,"  for  a  "foreigner,"  was 
acting  strangely.  Surely  he  was  dressed  in  a 
garb  hitherto  almost  unknown  in  the  rough 
mountains,  certainly  none  of  the  mountaineers 
whom  he  had  met  (and  he  had  met,  with  plain  un- 
willingness, a  few,  as  he  had  climbed  up  to  the 
rocky  clearing  where  his  fire  had  blossomed  so  re- 
markably) had  recognized  him.  But,  despite  all 
this,  it  was  quite  plain  that  he  was  traveling  through 
a  country  of  which  he  found  many  details  familiar. 
Now  and  then  a  little  vista  caught  his  view  and 
held  him  for  long  minutes  while  he  seemed  to  be 
comparing  its  reality  with  pictures  of  it  stored 
wfthin  his  memory;  again  he  paused  when  he  dis- 
covered that  some  whim  of  tramping  mountaineers 
or  roaming  cattle,  some  landslide  born  of  winter 
frosts;  some  blockade  of  trees  storm-felled,  had 
changed  the  course  of  an  old  path.  Always,  in  a 
case  like  this,  he  investigated  carefully  before  he 
definitely  started  on  the  new  one. 

When  he  had  first  come  into  the  neighborhood 

70 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


he  had  made  his  way  with  caution,  almost  as  if 
fearing  to  be  seen,  but  now,  after  the  bits  of  rocks 
which  he  had  taken  from  Madge  Brierly's  clearing, 
had  slipped  into  his  pocket,  he  used  double  care  in 
keeping  from  such  routes  as  showed  the  marks  of 
many  recent  footsteps,  in  sly  investigations  to  make 
sure  the  paths  he  chose  were  clear  of  other  way- 
farers. His  nerves  evidently  on  keen  edge,  he 
seemed  to  fear  surprise  of  some  unpleasant  sort. 
Each  crackling  twig,  as  he  passed  through  the 
thickets,  each  rustling  of  a  frightened  rabbit  as  it 
scuttled  from  his  path,  each  whir  of  startled  grouse, 
or  sudden  call  of  nesting  king-bird,  made  him  pause 
cautiously  until  he  had  quite  satisfied  himself  that 
it  meant  nothing  to  be  feared.  He  was  ever  care- 
fully alert  for  danger  of  some  sort. 

But  not  even  his  continual  alarms,  his  constant 
watchfulness,  could  keep  his  mind  away  from  the 
rough  bits  of  rock  which  he  had  chipped  from  the 
outcropping  in  the  clearing.  More  than  once,  as 
he  found  convenient  and  safe  places — leafy  nooks 
in  rocky  clefts,  glades  in  dense,  impenetrable  thick- 
ets— he  took  out  the  little  specimens,  turned  them 
over  in  his  hands  with  loving  touches,  and  gazed 
at  them  with  an  expression  of  picturesquely  avari- 
cious joy.  Had  any  witnessed  this  proceedure  they 
would  have  found  it  vastly  puzzling,  for  the  speci- 
mens seemed  merely  small,  black  stones  and  value- 
less. But  once,  while  looking  at  them  lovingly,  he 
burst  into  a  harsh  and  hearty  laugh  as  of  great 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


triumph,  quite  involuntarily;  but  hushed  it  quickly, 
looking,  then,  about  him  with  an  apprehensive 
glance.  Each  step  he  made  was,  in  the  main,  a 
cautious  one,  each  pause  he  made  was  plainly  to 
look  at  some  familiar,  if  some  slightly  altered,  vista. 

It  was  quite  clear  that  with  the  finding  of  the 
little  bits  of  rock  he  had  achieved  the  errand  which 
had  brought  him  to  the  mountains,  and  that  now 
he  roamed  to  satisfy  his  memory's  curiosity.  Smiles 
of  recognition  constantly  played  upon  his  grim  and 
grizzled  face  at  sight  of  some  old  path,  some  dis- 
tant, mist-enshrouded  crag,  even  some  mighty  pine 
or  oak  which  had  for  years  withstood  the  buffet- 
ing of  tempestuous  storms;  now  and  then  a  little 
puzzled  frown,  added  its  wrinkles  to  the  many 
which  already  creased  his  brow,  when,  at  some 
spot  which  he  had  thought  to  find  as  he  had  left  it, 
long  ago,  he  discovered  that  time's  changes  had 
been  notable. 

Once  only  did  the  man  become  confused  among 
the  woods-paths  (where  a  stranger  might  have  lost 
himself  quite  hopelessly  in  twenty  minutes)  and 
that  was  at  a  point  not  far  from  where  Madge 
Brierly  and  Layson  had,  on  their  way  up  from  the 
clearing,  paused  while  she  told  her  youthful  escort 
of  the  grim  but  simple  tragedy  of  her  feud-dark- 
ened childhood.  Before  the  old  man  reached  this 
spot  he  had  been  traveling  with  puzzled  caution, 
for  a  time,  across  a  slope  rough-scarred  by  some 
not  ancient  landslide  which  had  changed  the  super- 

72 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


ficial  contour  of  the  mountain-side.  When,  sud- 
denly, he  debouched  upon  the  rocky  crag,  hung,  a 
rustic,  natural  platform  above  a  gorgeous  pan- 
orama of  the  valley,  the  view  came  to  him,  evi- 
dently, as  a  sharp,  a  startling,  most  unpleasant 
shock. 

That  the  place  was  quite  familiar  to  him  none 
who  watched  him  would  have  doubted,  but  no 
smiles  of  pleasant  memories  curved  his  thin,  un- 
pleasant lips  as  he  surveyed  it.  He  did  not  pause 
there,  happily,  communing  with  his  memory  in 
smiling  reminiscence  as  he  had  at  other  points  along 
the  way.  Instead,  as  the  great  view  burst  upon  his 
gaze,  he  started  back  as  if  the  outlook  almost  ter- 
rified him.  He  had  been  traveling  astoop,  partly 
because  the  burden  of  his  years  weighed  heavy  on 
his  shoulders,  partly  as  if  his  muscles  had  uncon- 
sciously reverted  to  the  easy,  slouching,  climbing- 
stoop  of  the  Kentucky  mountaineer.  But  at  sight 
of  thig  especial  spot  his  attitude  changed  utterly, 
the  whole  expression,  not  of  his  face,  alone,  but  of 
his  body,  altered.  His  stoop  became  a  crouch.  His 
hands  flew  out  before  him  as  if,  with  them,  he 
strove  to  ward  away  the  charming  scene.  His  feet 
paused  in  their  tracks,  as  if  struck  helpless  and 
immovable  by  what  his  eyes  revealed  to  him. 

For  a  full  moment,  almost  without  moving,  he 
stood  there,  fascinated  by  some  old  association, 
plainly,  for  there  was  nothing  in  the  prospect 
which,  to  an  actual  stranger,  would  have  seemed 

73 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


more  notable  than  details  of  a  dozen  other  views 
which  he  had  peered  at  through  his  half-dosed, 
weather-beaten  eyes  within  the  hour.  Here,  clearly, 
was  the  arena  of  some  great  event  in  his  past  life 
— an  arena  which  he  gladly  would  have  never  seen 
again.  His  face  went  pale  beneath  its  coat  of  tan, 
his  shoulders  trembled  slightly  as  he  tried  to  shrug 
them  with  indifference  to  brace  his  courage  up. 
Twice  he  started  from  the  spot,  determined,  evi- 
dently, to  shut  away  the  crowding  and  unpleasant 
recollections  it  recalled  to  him,  twice  he  returned  to 
it,  to  carefully,  if  with  evident  repugnance,  make 
closer  study  of  some  detail  of  its  rugged  pictur- 
esqueness.  More  than  once,  as  he  lingered  there 
against  his  will,  his  hands  raised  upward  to  his 
eyes  as  if  to  shut  away  from  them  some  vivid  mem- 
ory-picture, but  each  time  they  fell,  with  strangely 
hopeless  gesture.  The  picture  which  they  strove  to 
hide  plainly  was  not  before  his  eyes  in  the  actual 
scene,  but  painted  in  the  brain  behind  them  and  not 
to  be  shut  out  with  screening,  claw-curved  fingers. 
The  effect  of  this  especial  spot  on  the  old  man, 
indeed,  was  most  remarkable.  His  lips,  as  he 
stood  gazing  there,  moved  constantly  as  if  with 
words  unspoken,  and,  once  or  twice,  the  crowding 
sentences  found  actual  but  not  articulate  voice. 
Whenever  this  occurred  he  started,  to  look  about 
behind  him  as  if  he  feared  that  some  one,  who 
might  overhear,  had  crept  up  upon  him  slyly. 
Finally,  making  absolutely  certain  that  he  had  not 

74 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


been  observed  by  any  human  being,  and  evidently 
yielding  to  an  impulse  almost  irresistible,  he  went 
over  the  ground  carefully,  examining  each  foot  of 
the  little  rocky  platform  with  not  a  loving,  but  a 
fascinated  observation. 

When  he  finally  left  the  spot  a  striking  change 
had  come  upon  his  features.  He  had  reached  the 
place  sly,  cunning,  and,  withal,  triumphant,  as  if 
he  had  accomplished,  that  day,  through  securing  the 
small  stones,  some  secret  thing  of  a  great  import. 
His  countenance,  as,  at  length,  he  went  away,  was 
not  triumphant  but  half  terrified.  It  was  as  if  some 
long- forgotten  scene  of  horror  had  been  brought 
before  his  gaze  again,  to  terrify  and  astonish  him. 

His  footsteps  had  been  slow  and  leisurely,  the 
footsteps  of  a  contemplative,  if  a  surreptitious 
sightseer,  but  now  they  quickened  almost  into  run- 
ning, and  the  intensely  disagreeable  effect  of  the 
mysterious  episode  had  not  left  him  wholly,  when, 
twenty  minutes  afterward,  he  had  mounted  the 
rocky  hill  path  by  a  precipitous  climb  and  found 
himself  within  a  little,  cupped  inclosure  in  the 
rocks,  secluded  enough  and  beautiful  enough  to  be 
a  fairies'  dancing-floor.  There,  again,  he  seemed 
to  recognize  old  landmarks,  but  with  fewer  of  un- 
pleasant memories  connected  with  them.  Plain  cu- 
riosity glowed,  now,  in  his  narrow,  crafty  eyes. 

"I  wonder,"  he  exclaimed,  "if  it's  here  yet." 

As  he  spoke  his  glance  flashed  swiftly  to  the  far 
side  of  the  little  glade,  where,  on  the  face  of  a 

75 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


dense  thicket,  a  trained  eye,  such  as  his,  might 
mark  a  spot  where  bushes  had  been  often  parted 
with  extreme  care  not  to  do  them  injury  and  thus 
reveal  the  fact  that  through  them  lay  a  thorough- 
fare. Noting  this  with  a  wry  smile  of  malicious 
satisfaction,  he  started  slowly  toward  the  spot. 

The  caution  of  his  movements  was  redoubled, 
now.  While  he  had  worked,  back  in  the  clearing, 
cooking  his  simple  noonday  meal  and  chipping  off 
the  little  specimens  of  rock,  he  had  shown  that  he 
wished  not  to  have  his  strange  activities  observed. 
On  the  mountain  paths  he  had  plainly  been  most 
anxious  not  to  run  across  chance  wayfarers  who 
might  ask  questions,  or  (the  possibility  was  most 
remote,  but  still  a  possibility)  remember  him  of 
old.  He  had  been  merely  cautious,  though,  not 
definitely  fearful. 

Now,  however,  actual  and  obsessive  dread  showed 
plainly  on  his  face  and  in  his  movements.  Such 
a  fear  would  have  induced  most  men  to  abandon 
any  enterprise  which  was  not  fraught  with  compell- 
ing necessity;  with  him  insistent  curiosity  seemed 
to  counterbalance  it.  The  man's  face,  rough,  hard, 
cruel,  was,  withal,  unusually  expressive;  its  deep 
lines  were  more  than  ordinarily  mobile,  and  every 
one  of  them,  as  he  proceeded,  soft-footed  as  a  cat, 
amazingly  lithe  and  supple  for  his  years,  as  com- 
petent to  find  his  way  unseen  through  a  woods 
country  as  an  Indian,  showed  that  irresistible  and 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


fiercely  inquisitive  impulse  was  offsetting  in  his 
mind  a  deadly  apprehension. 

In  one  way  only,  though,  in  spite  of  the  accellera- 
tion  of  his  eager  curiosity,  did  he  drop  his  guard, 
at  all,  and  this  was  quite  apparently  the  direct  re- 
sult of  high  excitement.  That  he  had  dropped  it 
he  was  clearly  quite  unconscious,  but  when  his  lips 
moved,  now,  they  more  than  once  let  fall  articulate 
words. 

"Ef  th'  old  still's  thar  .  .  ."  they  said  at  one 
time ;  then,  after  a  long  pause  devoted  to  worming 
troublous  way  through  tangled  areas  of  windfall, 
they  muttered,  in  completion  of  the  sentence: 
"...  it'll  be  th'  son  that's  runnin'  it."  An- 
other busy  silence,  and :  "Thar  was  a  girl  .  .  . 
th'  daughter  of  .  .  ." 

Either  a  spasmodic  contraction  of  the  throat  at 
mere  thought  of  the  name — a  grimace,  almost  of 
pain,  which  suddenly  convulsed  the  old  man's  evil 
face  might  well  have  made  a  stranger  think  that 
his  muscles  had  rebelled — or  an  unusually  difficult 
struggle  across  a  fallen  tree-trunk  prevented  fur- 
ther speech,  as,  probably,  it  prevented  for  the  time, 
consecutive  further  thought  of  old-time  memories. 
His  mind  was  tensely  concentrated  on  the  work  of 
climbing  through  the  tangle  of  dead  trunks  and 
branches,  and,  when  he  had  accomplished  the  hard 
passage,  was  turned  wholly  from  the  things  which 
he  had  been  considering  by  a  slight  crackling,  as 


77 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


of  some  one  stepping  on  a  brittle  twig,  at  a  dis- 
tance in  advance  of  him. 

Instantly  he  was  on  his  guard,  showing  signs 
quite  unmistakable  of  deadly  fear.  He  shrank 
back  into  the  thicket  with  the  speed  and  silence  of 
a  frightened  animal. 

The  panic  which  had  seized  him  soon  had  passed, 
however,  for,  within  a  few  short  seconds  it  was 
clear  to  him  that  the  noise  which  he  had  heard  had 
not  been  made  by  any  one  suspicious  of  his  pres- 
ence or  a-search  for  him. 

Peering  cautiously  between  the  slender  boles  of 
crooked  mountain-laurel  bushes,  he  soon  found  a 
vantage  point  from  which  he  could  see  on  beyond 
the  densely  woven  foliage,  and,  to  his  astonishment, 
found,  before  he  had  thought,  possible  that  he  had 
progressed  so  far,  that  he  had  already  reached  the 
place  he  sought.  Memory  had  made  the  way  to  it 
a  longer  one  than  it  was  really,  and,  in  spite  of  the 
delays  caused  by  his  advancing  age  and  awkward 
muscles,  long  unaccustomed  to  the  work  of  thread- 
ing mountain  paths,  he  had  traveled  faster  than  he 
thought. 

Not  fifty  feet  away  from  him,  separated  from 
the  thicket  he  was  hiding  in  but  by  a  narrow  stretch 
of  mountain  sward,  he  saw,  among  the  mountain 
side's  disordered  rocks,  the  carefully  masked  en- 
trance to  a  cave. 

An  untrained  eye  would  never  have  made  note 
of  the  few  signs  which  made  it  clear  to  him,  at 

78 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


once,  that  this  cave  was,  as  it  had  been  long  years 
before  when  he  had  known  it  well,  a  place  of  fre- 
quent call  for  footsteps  skilled  in  mountain  cun- 
ning. No  path  was  worn  to  its  rough  entrance, 
but,  here  and  there,  a  broken  grass-blade,  in  an- 
other place  a  pebble  recently  dislodged  from  its 
accustomed  hollow,  elsewhere  a  ragged  bit  of  pa- 
per, torn  from  a  tobacco-package,  proved  to  him 
that,  although  hidden  in  the  wilderness  of  old 
Mount  Nebo's  scarred  and  inaccessible  sides,  this 
spot  was  yet  one  often  visited  by  many  men. 

A  grim  smile  stirred  the  leathern  folds  of  his 
old  cheeks. 

"Thar  yet,"  he  thought,  "an'  doin'  business  yet." 

Again;  after  he  had  worked  about  to  get  a  better 
view.' 

"Best-hidden  still  in  these  here  mountings.  Rev- 
enuers  never  will  get  run  of  it." 

The  place  had  a  mighty  fascination  for  him,  a^ 
if  it  might  have  played  a  tremendous  part  in  long- 
gone  passages  of  his  own  life.  As  he  stood  gazing 
at  it  cautiously,  the  mountaineer  seemed  definitely 
to  emerge  from  his  low-country  dress  and  super- 
ficial "blue-grass"  manner,  fastened  on  him  by  long 
years  of  usage.  Old  expressions  of  not  only  face 
but  muscles  came  clearly  to  the  front.  Now,  no 
person  watching  him,  could  ever  for  a  moment 
doubt  that  he  was  mountain-born  and  mountain- 
bred,  if  they  but  knew  the  ear-marks  of  that  peo- 
ple— almost  a  race  apart.  The  sight  of  the  old 

79 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


cave-mouth  plainly  stirred  in  him  a  horde  of  mem- 
ories not  wholly  pleasant.  Leathern  as  his  face 
was,  it  none  the  less  showed  his  emotions  with  re- 
markable lucidity  now  that  he  was  off  his  guard. 
Now  sly  cunning  dominated  it,  with,  possibly,  a 
touch  left  of  the  early  fear  to  flavor  it. 

"I  bet  a  hundred  revenuers  in  these  mountains 
have  looked  for  that  there  still,"  he  thought,  "an' 
no  one  ever  found  it,  yet.  Forty  years  it's  been 
thar — through  three  generations  o'  th'  Loreys — 
damn  'em! — an'  no  one's  ever  squealed  on  'em.  I 
.  .  .  wonder  .  .  ." 

A  look  of  vicious  craft  and  malice  wholly  drove 
away  the  searching  curiosity  which  had  possessed 
the  old  man's  features.  For  a  time  he  plainly 
planned  some  work  of  bitter  venge fulness.  Then, 
with  shaking  head,  he  evidently  abandoned  the  en- 
ticing thought. 

"Too  resky,"  he  concluded,  and  edged  a  little 
nearer  to  the  thicket's  edge.  "Might  stir  up 
old " 

He  paused  suddenly,  alert  and  keenly  listening. 
From  another  path  than  that  by  which  he  had  ap- 
proached the  place  there  came  the  sound  of  voices 
raised  in  talk  and  laughter.  He  easily  identified 
them,  to  his  great  surprise,  as  those  of  some  young 
mountain-girl  and  some  young  blue-grass  gentle- 
man. Their  tones  and  accents  told  this  story 
plainly.  Surprised  and  curious,  he  went  farther, 
his  head  bent,  with  study  of  the  voices,  peering, 

80 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


meanwhile,  through  the  thicket's  tangle  to  get  sight 
of  them  as  soon  as  they  appeared  within  the  clear- 
ing. Suddenly  he  dropped  his  jaw  in  blank 
amazement. 

"Frank  Layson!"  he  exclaimed. 

The  girl's  voice  he  did  not  recognize,  but  knew, 
of  course,  from  its  peculiar  accent,  that  it  was  some 
mountain  maiden's. 

"Well!"  he  exclaimed  beneath  his  breath  in  ab- 
solute astonishment.  "I  didn't  think  it  of  Frank 
Layson!  What  would  Barbara " 

The  pair  emerged,  now,  from  a  gully  by-path, 
and  came  into  view.  He  tightly  shut  his  jaws  and 
watched  them  with  a  peering,  eager  curiosity. 

A  moment  later,  and  by  her  wonderful  resem- 
blance to  her  dead  mother,  he  recognized  the  girl. 

She,  above  all  people,  must  not  know  that  he 
was  there,  even  if  she  only  thought  him  to  be 
Horace  Holton,  newcomer  among  the  blue-grass 
gentry  in  the  valley.  His  plans  had  been  laid  care- 
fully, and  for  her  to  find  them  out  would  almost 
certainly  upset  them  all.  He  was  far  from  anx- 
ious to  meet  Layson,  there  among  the  mountains, 
for  it  would  mean  awkward  questioning,  but  he 
was  doubly  anxious  to  avoid  a  meeting  with  the 
girl,  first  because  she  owned  the  land  on  which  he 
had  secured  the  bits  of  rock  then  nestling  in  his 
pocket,  and,  second,  because  she  was  the  daughter 
of 

His  thoughts  were  interrupted,  for,  for  a  sec- 
Si 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


ond,  he  thought  they  must  have  seen  him,  so  defi- 
nite was  their  approach  straight  toward  the  thicket 
where  he  hid.  He  crouched,  frightened.  It  would 
be  a  very  awkward  matter  to  be  found  there  by 
them,  and,  besides,  he  did  not  know  who  might  be 
out  of  sight  within  the  hidden  still.  It  was  quite 
possible  that  there  might  lurk  a  deadly  enemy.  He 
must  worm  back  through  the  thicket  with  great 
caution,  and,  following  the  secluded  ways  which 
he  had  traversed  in  his  coming,  get  back  to  the 
railroad  camp,  where  was  safety. 

He  stepped  backward  hastily,  and,  in  so  doing, 
trod  upon  a  rotten  branch.  He  had  not  been  as 
cautious  as  he  had  intended,  and  this  misstep  un- 
balanced him  and  sent  him  to  the  ground,  with  a 
tremendous  crashing  of  the  brittle  twigs  and  dead- 
wood. 

Springing  to  his  feet  while  the  young  people, 
startled  by  the  great  disturbance,  paused  where  they 
were  standing,  for  an  instant,  he  hurried  back  into 
the  hidden,  thicket-bordered  path,  now  using  all  his 
recrudescent  skill  of  silent  woods-progression,  and 
made  complete  escape,  leaving  them  not  sure  that 
the  disturbance  had  been  caused  by  human  blun- 
dering and  not  some  vagrant  beast's. 

Madge  held  back,  but  Layson  hurried  to  the 
thicket,  with  gun  raised  ready  for  a  shot. 

Just  then,  from  the  carefully  concealed  cave-en- 
trance, came  Joe  Lorey,  rifle  poised  for  trouble, 


82 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


eyes  gleaming  fiercely,  evidently  keyed  to  meet  a 
raid  by  revenuers. 

It  was  plain  enough  that  he  believed  the  noise 
which  had  disturbed,  alarmed  him,  had  been  made 
by  this  young  sportsman.  Indeed,  as  he  who  really 
had  caused  the  uproar  was,  now,  well  on  a  cau- 
tious backward  way  along  the  path  by  which  he  had 
come  up,  and  the  girl  and  Layson  were  the  only 
folk  in  sight,  the  young  moonshiner's  mistake  was 
natural. 

Madge,  almost  as  much  disturbed  as  Lorey  was 
by  the  crashing  in  the  thickets,  was  looking  in  the 
direction  whence  the  noise  had  come,  and,  at  first, 
did  not  see  him.  When  she  did  she  smiled  at  him, 
and  called  to  him,  but,  absorbed  in  study  of  the 
blue-grass  youth  who  had  so  suddenly  appeared 
there  in  his  secret  place  among  the  mountains  in 
company  with  the  girl  whom  he,  himself,  adored, 
Joe  did  not  answer  her,  at  first.  When  he  did  it 
was  with  nothing  more  than  a  curt  nod.  He  was 
astonished  and  alarmed  to  see  her  in  such  company. 

After  that  curt  nod  he  waited  for  no  explana- 
tion, but,  like  a  shadow,  slipped  into  a  thicket,  dis- 
appearing instantly.  No  Indian  from  Cooper's  tales 
could  have  more  instantly  obliterated  all  trace  of 
himself,  could  have  more  quickly,  noiselessly,  mys- 
teriously disappeared  amongst  the  greenery,  than 
did  this  mountaineer.  His  movements,  made  with 
the  instinctive  cunning  of  the  woodsman  and  with 
muscles  trained  not  only  by  wild  life  there  in  the 

83 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


mountains  to  speed,  endurance  and  exactitude,  but     • 
by  many  an  hour  of  stealthy  stalking  of  the  "rev- 
enuers"  sent  to  search  out  his  moonshine  still,  raid 
it,  take  him  prisoner,  were  almost  magically  active, 
cautious,  furtive  and  effe'ctive. 

For  an  instant  Madge  herself,  accustomed  to  the 
native's  skill  in  woodcraft,  as  she  was,  gazed  after 
him,  astonished  by  the  magic  of  his  disappearance, 
and,  at  first,  piqued  not  a  little  by  his  scanty  cour- 
tesy. Then  realizing  that  the  mountaineer  was, 
possibly,  quite  justified  in  feeling  grave  suspicions 
of  the  stranger  who  was  with  her — of  any  stranger 
coming  thus,  without  a  herald  to  the  mountains — 
she  turned  again  to  Layson,  and,  with  her  hand 
lightly  guiding  him  by  touch  as  delicate,  almost,  as 
a  wind-blown  leaf's  upon  his  sleeve,  led  him  to  the 
nearest  mountain  path  and  on,  toward  a  point 
whence  she  could  clearly  point  out  to  him  the  way 
to  his  own  camp. 

And,  suddenly,  her  own  heart  throbbed  with 
worry.  Had  she  not  done  wrong  in  bringing  this 
unknown  and,  therefore,  this  mysterious  stranger 
so  close  upon  the  heart  of  Lorey's  secret?  She  had 
chosen  the  path  thoughtlessly.  She  realized  that, 
now,  and  much  regretted  it.  The  man  had  wholly 
won  her  confidence,  but  had  it  been  considerate  or 
fair  to  Joe,  her  lifelong  friend,  or  to  the  other 
people  of  the  mountains  who  had  things  to  hide 
from  strangers,  to  be  quite  so  frank  with  him  in  her 
revelation  of  the  byways  of  the  wilderness? 

84 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Between  the  mountain-dwellers  and  the  people 
of  the  lowlands  never  could  exist  real  confidence  or 
friendship.  From  her  babyhood  she  had  been 
taught  to  feel  suspicion  of  all  strangers :  that  was, 
indeed,  first  article  in  the  creed  of  all  folk  moun- 
tain-born. Why  had  she  so  freely  dropped  her 
mantle  of  reserve  before  this  stranger?  That  he 
had  saved  her  from  the  bush-fire  was  excuse  for 
her  own  gratitude,  but  was  it  valid  reason  for  ex- 
posing her  best  friends  to  danger  at  his  hands,  if 
they  proved  treacherous?  The  revenuers,  she  had 
been  informed,  were  men  of  devilish  craft,  unscru- 
pulous cunning.  Might  not  this  youth  with  the 
fine  clothes,  the  splendid  manner,  the  great  learn- 
ing, the  soft  voice,  the  quick  resource  and  the  un- 
doubted bravery,  very  well  be  one  of  them? 

She  had  once  heard  a  mountain  preacher  draw  a 
picture  of  the  devil,  which  made  him  most  attrac- 
tive and  in  the  same  way  that  this  youth  was  most 
attractive.  Certain  of  the  sympathies  of  his  rough 
hearers,  the  man  had  painted  Beelzebub  with  broad, 
rough,  verbal  strokes,  as  a  blue-grass  gentleman  in- 
tent on  the  destruction  of  the  honor,  independence, 
liberty  of  mountaineers.  The  mountaineer  has 
never  and  will  never  understand  what  right  the  gov- 
ernment of  state  or  nation  has  to  interfere  with 
whatsoe'er  he  does  on  his  own  land  with  his  own 
corn  in  his  own  still.  Just  why  he  has  no  right 
to  manufacture  whiskey  without  paying  taxes  on 
the  product  he  really  fails  to  comprehend.  He 

85 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


regards  the  "revenuer"  as  the  representative  of 
acute  and  cruel  injustice  and  oppression.  When  he 
"draws  a  bead"  on  one  he  does  it  with  no  such 
thoughts  as  common  murderers  must  know  when 
they  shoot  down  their  enemies.  He  does  not  think 
such  killings  are  crude  murder,  any  more  than  he 
regards  feud  killings  as  assassinations. 

With  such  ideas  Madge  had  been,  to  some  ex- 
tent, imbued.  With  feud  feeling  she  was  quite  in 
sympathy — had  not  she  lost  her  loved  ones  through 
its  awful  work?  Could  she  ever  have  revenge  on 
those  who  had  thus  bereaved  her  through  any 
means  save  similar  assassination? 

And  certainly  the  revenuers  were  her  enemies, 
for  they  were  the  foemen  of  her  friends.  If  this 
young  man  should  be  a  revenuer  she  might  have 
done  a  harm  incalculable  by  guiding  him  along  the 
secret  mountain  byways  which  they  had  been  trav- 
elling. 

Her  heart  was  in  her  throat  from  worry,  for  an 
instant.  Had  she,  whose  very  soul  was  fiercely 
loyal  to  the  mountains  and  their  people,  been  the 
one  to  show  an  enemy  the  way  into  their  citadel? 
Had  she,  bound  especially  to  Joe  Lorey,  not  only 
by  the  ties  of  life-long  friendship  but  by  that  other 
comradeship  which  had  grown  out  of  mutual 
wrongs  and  mutual  hatred  of  Ben  Lindsay  (not 
dimmed,  a  whit,  by  the  mere  fact  that,  terrified,  he 
had,  years  ago  fled  from  the  mountains),  done 
Joe  the  greatest  wrong  of  all  by  leading  this  fine 

86 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


stranger  to  the  very  entrance  of  his  hidden  still? 
Was  he  a  revenuer  in  disguise? 

The  magnitude  of  her  possible  indiscretion  filled 
her  with  alarm.  That  crashing  in  the  bushes  back 
of  them  might  have  been  made  by  some  associate 
of  his,  who  had  trailed  them  at  a  distance,  ready 
to  give  assistance,  if  needs  be,  or,  in  case  all  things 
went  right  and  the  bolder  man  who  had  gone  first 
and  fallen  into  the  great  luck  of  an  acquaintance 
with  her  had  no  need  of  help,  to  corroborate  his 
observations,  help  him  to  scheme  the  way  by  which 
to  make  attack  upon  the  still  when  the  time  for  it 
should  come. 

As  she  considered  all  these  possibilities,  quite 
reasonable  to  her  suspicious  mind,  she  shuddered. 

But  then,  as  she  went  slowly  down  the  mountain 
path  beside  the  stranger  she  looked  up  and  caught 
the  frank  calm  glances  of  his  eyes. 

Surely  there  was  nothing  of  cowardice  such  as 
would  fool  a  trusting  girl  into  betrayal  of  her 
friends,  in  them ;  surely  there  was  not  the  low  craft 
of  a  spy  in  them;  surely  their  clear  and  unexcited 
gaze  was  not  that  of  a  keen  hunter,  unscrupulously 
on  the  trail  of  human  game,  who  has  just  learned 
tnrough  the  innocent  indiscretion  of  a  girl  who 
trusted  him,  the  secret  of  its  covert. 

As  she  looked  at  him  she  was  convinced  of  two 
things,  vastly  comforting.  One  was  that  Layso» 
had  no  knowledge  of  the  still;  that,  untrained  to 
mountain  ways  and  unsuspicious,  he  had  not  even 

87 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


guessed  at  the  secret  of  the  little  hidden  place 
among  the  mountains.  Another  was — and  this 
gave  her,  although  she  could  have  scarcely  ex- 
plained why,  a  greater  comfort  than  the  first  had 
— that  had  he  had  that  knowledge  he  would  not 
have  used  it  meanly. 

She  thrilled  pleasantly  with  the  complete  convic- 
tion that  the  man  whom  she  had  liked  so  much  at 
first  sight,  the  man  who  had  shown  such  pluck  in 
saving  her  from  fire,  the  man  who  had  exhibited 
such  thought  fulness  and  helpfulness  in  starting  her 
upon  the  rocky  path  toward  education,  was  true 
and  fair  and  fine — was,  in  the  curt  language  of  the 
mountains,  "decent." 

When  she  left  him  at  the  foot  of  the  rough  path 
which  wound  up  to  the  cabin  where  she  lived  alone, 
she  had  quite  recovered  confidence  in  him.  She 
eagerly  assented  to  his  suggestion  that  they  meet 
again,  the  following  day,  for  the  continuation  of 
her  studies. 


CHAPTER  V3 

Their  next  lesson  was  in  a  new  school-room. 
The  clearing  where  they  had  had  their  first,  was, 
now,  charred  and  blackened,  not  attractive,  after 
the  small  fire;  so,  after  going  to  it,  the  following 
day  to  look  it  over  with  that  interest  with  which 
the  man  who  has  escaped  from  peril  seeks  again, 
the  scene  of  it  in  curiosity,  they  found  another 
glade  wherein  to  carry  on  their  delving  after  knowl- 
edge of  the  A  B  C's. 

There,  beneath  a  canopy  of  arching  branches 
and  the  sky,  between  rustling  walls  of  greenery  pil- 
lared by  the  mighty  boles  of  forest  trees,  they  had 
the  second  lesson  of  the  course  which  was  to  open 
up  to  Madge  the  magic  realm  of  books  and  of  the 
learning  hidden  in  them. 

Nor  did  her  investigations  now,  confine  them- 
selves, entirely  to  the  things  the  small  book  taught. 
She  questioned  Layson  about  a  thousand  things 
less  dry  and  matter-of-fact  than  shape  of  printed 
symbols  and  the  manner  of  their  combination  in 
the  printed  word.  Life,  life — that  was  to  her,  as 
it  has  ever  been  to  all  of  us,  the  most  fascinating 

89 


thing.  Here  was  one  who  had  come  from  far,  mys- 
terious realms  which  she  had  vaguely  heard  about 
in  winter-evening  gossip  at  the  mountain-cabin  fire- 
sides ;  realms  where  men  were  courteous  to  women, 
careful  in  their  speech ;  where  women  did  not  work, 
but  sat  on  silken  chairs  with  black  menials  ready 
to  their  call  to  serve  their  slightest  wish ;  where 
maidens  were  not  clad  as  she  was  clad,  and  every 
woman  she  had  ever  known  was  clad,  in  calico  or 
linsey-woolsey  homespun,  but  richly,  wondrously, 
in  silks  and  satins,  laces,  beaded  gew-gaws.  In  her 
imagination's  picture,  the  maids  and  matrons  of  the 
blue-grass  were  as  marvellous,  as  fascinating,  as 
are  the  fairies  and  the  sprites  of  Anderson  and 
Grimm  to  girls  more  fortunately  placed.  No  tale 
of  elf  born  from  a  cleft  rock,  touched  by  magic 
wand,  ever  more  completely  fascinated  any  big- 
eyed  city  child,  than  did  the  tales  which  Layson  told 
her — commonplace  and  ordinary  to  his  mind :  mere 
casual  account  of  routine  life — about  his  family  and 
friends  down  in  the  blue-grass,  the  enchanted  re- 
gion separated  from  them  where  they  sat  by  a 
hundred  miles  or  so  of  rugged  hills  and  billow- 
ing forests.  Her  eager  questions  especially  drew 
from  him  with  a  greed  insatiable  account  of  all  the 
gayeties  of  that  mysterious  existence. 

"And  that  aunt  of  yours — Muss  Aluth — Aluth 
j> 

"Miss  Alathea  Layson?"  he  inquired,  and  smiled. 
"Yes;  what  queer  names  the  women  have,  down 

90 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


there !  Is  she  pretty  ?  Does  she  dress  in  silks  and 
satins,  too,  like  the  girls  that  go  to  them  big 
dances?" 

He  laughed.  "None  of  them  are  always  dressed 
in  silks  and  satins,"  he  replied.  "Perhaps  I've  given 
you  a  wrong  idea.  We  \vork  down  there,  as  hard, 
perhaps,  as  you  do  here,  but  we  have  more  things 
to  work  with.  Don't  get  the  notion,  little  girl,  that 
all  these  things  which  I  have  told  you  of  are  magic 
things  which  surely  will  bring  happiness!  There 
is  no  more  of  that,  I  reckon,  in  the  blue-grass  than 
there  is  here  in  the  mountains.  Silks  and  satins 
don't  make  happiness,  balls  and  garden-fetes  don't 
make  it.  A  girl  who's  sobbing  in  a  ball  gown  can 
be  quite  as  miserable  as  you  would  be,  unhappy 
in  your  homespun." 

She  was  impatient  of  his  moralizing.  "I  know- 
that,"  she  said.  "Dellaw,  don't  you  suppose  I've 
got  some  sense?  But  it  ain't  quite  true,  neither. 
Maybe  if  I  was  going  to  be  unhappy  I'd  be  just  as 
much  so  in  a  silk  dress  as  I  would  in  this  here  cot- 
ton one  that  I've  got  on ;  but  I  guess  there's  times 
when  I'd  be  happier  in  the  silk  than  I  would  be  in 
this.  My,  I  wisht  I  had  one!" 

He  looked  at  her  appraisingly.  She  would,  he 
thought,  be  wondrous  beautiful  if  given  the  acces- 
sories which  girls  more  fortunate  had  at  their  hand. 
Beautiful,  she  was,  undoubtedly,  without  them; 
with  them  she  would  be — he  almost  caught  his 
breath  at  thought  of  it — sensational! 


IX  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Mentally  he  ran  over  all  the  girls  he  knew  in  a 
swift  survey  of  memory.  Not  one  of  them,  he 
thought,  could  really  compare  with  her.  Even  Bar- 
bara Holton,  with  her  haughty,  big  featured,  strik- 
ingly handsome  face,  although  she  had  attracted 
him  in  days  passed,  seemed  singularly  unattractive 
to  him,  now. 

While  he  sat,  musing  thus,  almost  forgetful  of 
the  puzzling  ABC,  she  gazed  off  across  the  val- 
ley dreamily,  the  A  B  C's  as  far  from  her.  It  was 
a  lovely  prospect  of  bare  crag  and  wooded  slope, 
green  fields  and  low-hung  clouds,  with,  at  its  cen- 
ter, here  and  there  the  silver  of  the  stream  which, 
back  among  the  forest  trees,  supplied  the  water  to 
the  hidden  pool  where  she  had  watched  him,  fur- 
tively, the  first  time  she  had  ever  seen  him.  But 
it  was  not  of  the  fair  prospect  that  the  girl  was 
thinking.  The  coming  of  the  stranger  had  brought 
into  her  life  a  hundred  new  emotions,  ten  thousand 
puzzling  guesses  at  the  life  which  lay  beyond  and 
could  produce  such  men  as  he.  Were  all  men  in  the 
blue-grass  like  Frank  Layson — courteous,  consid- 
erate, and  as  strong  and  active  as  the  best  of  moun- 
taineers? If  so — what  a  splendid  place  for  women! 
She  was  sure  that  men  like  him  were  never  brutal 
to  their  wives  and  daughters,  sisters,  mothers,  as 
the  mountaineers  too  often  are;  she  was  certain 
that  they  did  not  craze  themselves  with  whisky 
and  terrify  and  beat  their  families;  she  was  sure 
that  when  one  loved  a  girl  the  courtship  must  be 

92 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


all  sweet  gentleness  and  happiness  and  joy,  not 
like  the  quick  succession  of  mad  love-making  and 
fierce  quarrels  which  had  characterized  the  heart- 
affairs  that  she  had  watched,  there  in  the  moun- 
tains. 

She,  herself,  had  had  no  love-affairs.  Instinc- 
tively she  had  held  herself  aloof  from  the  ruck  of 
the  young  mountain-men,  neither  she  nor  they  knew 
why,  unless  it  was  because  she  owned  the  valley 
land  and  so  was  what  the  mountain  folk  called 
rich.  Most  of  them  had  tried  to  pay  her  court, 
but  none  of  them,  save  Joe,  had  in  the  least  at- 
tracted her,  and  she  had  let  them  know  this 
(strangely)  without  arousing  too  much  anger. 

Now  she  had  one  suitor,  only,  who  was  at  all 
persistent — Joe.  She  had  sometimes  thought  she 
loved  him.  Now  she  knew,  quite  certainly,  that 
she  did  not,  and,  in  a  vague  way,  was  sorry  for 
him,  for  she  was  quite  certain  of  his  love  for  her. 
It  never  once  occurred  to  her  that  she  was  rap- 
idly falling  in  love  with  the  young  man  by  her  side. 
She  had  not  thought  of  him  as  being  socially  su- 
perior: the  spirit  of  independence,  of  equality  of 
men,  is  nowhere  stronger,  even  in  this  land  of  in- 
dependence and  equality,  than  it  is  among  the 
mountains  of  the  Cumberland ;  but  she  knew  he  was 
most  wise.  Had  not  the  puzzling  symbols  in  the 
spelling-book  been,  to  him,  as  simple  matters?  She 
knew  that  he  was  gentle-hearted,  for  the  kindness 
of  his  acts  proved  that.  She  knew  that  he  was, 

93 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


really,  a  gentleman,  for  his  manner  was  so  per- 
fectly considerate,  so  ever  kind.  She  did  not  real- 
ize that  she  was  thinking  of  him  as  a  lover;  but  she 
dreamed,  there,  of  the  girls  down  in  the  blue-grass 
and  wondered  how  it  must  seem  to  them  to  have 
lovers  such  as  he.  She  could  but  very  vaguely 
speculate  as  to  their  emotions  or  appearance,  but 
her  speculations  on  both  points,  vague  as  they  might 
be,  made  her  suffer  strangely  and  cast  queer,  fur- 
tive little  side-glances  at  him.  In  her  heart  were 
stirrings  of  keen  jealousy  of  these  distant  maidens, 
but  this  she  did  not  realize. 

She  broke  into  his  revery  with:  "Don't  you 
know  any  women,  down  there,  but  your  aunt?" 

"Er— what?" 

"Don't  you  know  any  women,  down  there,  but 
your  aunt?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  he,  and  laughed.  "I  know  a 
lot  of  women,  down  there ;  lots  and  lots  of  women, 
certainly." 

"All  them  that  go  to  balls,  and  such  ?" 

"Many  of  them." 

"Do  you  like  to  dance  with  them  ?" 

"Oh,  yes;  of  course." 

"Tell  me — all  about  the  things  they  wear."  This 
was  not  quite  the  question  she  had  started  out  to 
ask,  but  an  answer  to  it  might  be  very  interesting. 

She  settled  comfortably  back  upon  the  boulder 
she  had  chosen  as  a  seat,  her  hands  clasped  about 


94 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


one  knee,  her  face  turned  toward  him  eagerly,  her 
eyes  sparkling  with  keen  zest. 

But  he  looked  at  her,  appalled.  "Why,"  said 
he,  "why — I  don't  believe  I  can.  I  know  they  al- 
ways seem  to  be  most  charming  in  appearance,  but 
just  how  they  work  the  magic  /  don't  know." 

"Can't  you  tell  me  nothing?"  Her  voice  showed 
bitter  disappointment.  She  unclasped  the  hands 
about  her  knee  and  sat  dejected  on  the  boulder. 
She  gave  him  not  the  slightest  hint  of  it,  but,  sud- 
denly, a  plan  had  come  into  her  mind. 

He  looked  at  her  regretfully.  "Perhaps  you'd 
better  question  me,"  said  he.  Maybe  I  can  scare 
up  details  if  you'll  let  me  know  just  what  you  wish 
to  hear  about." 

"How  are  their  dresses  made?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  skirt,  and  waist,  and  so  on,"  he  airily  re- 
plied. 

She  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "Well,  then, 
how  is  the  skirt  made?  Tell  me  that.  Tell  me 
everything  that  you  remember  about  skirts.  Are 
they  loose  as  mine,  or  tighter  ?"  She  rose  and  stood 
before  him,  in  her  scant  drapery  of  homespun,  turn- 
ing slowly,  so  that  he  might  see. 

It  was  very  clever.  Instantly  it  brought  to  mind 
the  last  girls  he  had  seen  down  in  the  lowlands 
at  a  lawn-party,  with  their  wide  and  much  be- 
ruffled  skirts. 

"Oh,  they're  looser,"  he  said  gravely.  "Much, 
much  looser.  Why,  they  are  as  big  around  as 

95 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


that !"  He  made  a  sweeping,  circular  gesture  with 
his  arms. 

"What  for  trimmings  do  they  have?" 

"Oh,  all  sorts  of  things — ruffles,  frills,  embroi- 
dery and  laces." 

"What's  embroidery?" 

He  tried  to  tell  her,  but  he  did  not  make  it  very 
clear,  and,  realizing  that  he  had  done  quite  his 
best  although  he  had  not  done  so  very  well,  she 
sighed  and  dropped  that  detail  of  the  subject.  But 
she  knew  what  frills  and  ruffles  were. 

"And  how  about  their  waists?"  said  she.  "Like 
mine,  are  they?" 

He  looked,  appraisingly,  at  the  loose  basque, 
which,  because  of  the  budding  beauty  of  her  form 
rather  than  because  of  any  merit  of  its  own,  had 
seemed  to  him  most  charming  and  attractive.  Close 
examination  did  not  show  this  to  be  the  case.  It 
was  a  crude  garment,  certainly,  of  crude  material, 
crude  cut,  crude  make.  The  beauty  all  was  in  the 
wearer's  soft  young  curves  and  lissome  grace. 

"No,"  he  answered,  honestly,  "they're  not  like 
that.  In  the  summer,  and  for  evenings — such  as 
dances  and  the  like — they  are  cut  low  at  the  neck. 
And  they  are  tighter." 

"I  suppose,"  said  she,  "they  wear  them  things 
that  they  call  corsets,  under  'em.  I've  heard  of 
'em — I  saw  one,  once — but  I  ain't  never  had  one. 
Maybe  I  had  better  get  one." 

He  spoke  hastily.    At  that  moment,  as  he  gazed 

96 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


at  her  slim  grace,  undulant,  untrammelled  and  as 
willowy  as  a  spring  sapling's,  it  seemed  to  him  thi.t 
it  would  be  a  sacrilege  to  confine  it  in  the  stiff 
rigidity  of  such  artificialities  as  corsets.  It  seemed 
a  bit  indelicate,  to  him,  to  talk  to  her  about  stub 
matters,  but  her  guilelessness  was  so  real  and  he 
was  so  assured  of  his  own  innocence,  that  he  did 
what  he  could  to  make  things  clear  to  her.  He 
descanted  with  some  eloquence  upon  the  wicked- 
ness of  lacing,  the  ungrace fulness  of  artificial  forms 
and  the  beauty  of  her  own  wholly  natural  grace. 

"I'm  glad  you  think  I'm  pretty,"  she  said 
frankly,  plainly  greatly  pleased,  "but  I  reckon  I'd  be 
prettier  if  I  had  one  of  them  there  corsets." 

His  protests  to  the  contrary  were  not  convincing, 
in  the  least. 

So  the  lessons  from  the  book  did  not  go  so  very 
far  that  day. 

"Furbelows  have  always  interested  females,  I 
suppose,"  said  he,  "but  I  didn't  really  think  you'd 
lose  your  interest  in  spelling-books  because  of 
them." 

"I  ain't  lost  interest  in  spelling-books,"  she  said. 
"I  ain't  lost  interest,  at  all.  After  I've  studied 
good  and  hard  I  can  read  all  about  such  things  in 
the  picture-papers  that  Mom  Liza  has  down  to  the 
store.  They've  got  all  kinds  of  pictures  in  'em — 
all  of  fancy  gowns  and  hats  and  things  like  that. 
She  showed  one  to  me,  once,  but  all  I  could  make 
out  was  just  the  pictures,  and  she  couldn't  manage 

97 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


to  make  out  much  more.  She  can  read  the  names 
on  all  the  letters  comin'  to  the  post-office,  for  there's 
only  three  folks  ever  gets  'em,  but  she  ain't  what 
you'd  really  call  a  scholar." 

He  laughed  heartily.  "So,  even  in  the  moun- 
tains, here,  they  take  the  fashion  papers,  do  they  ?" 

"No;  she  don't  pay  for  'em,"  she  gravely  an- 
swered. "They're  always  marked  with  red  ink, 
'Sample  Copy/  so  she  says ;  but  they  send  'em  ev'ry 
once  a  while.  If  you're  in  th'  post-office,  you  get  a 
lot  o'  things,  like  that — all  sorts  o'  picture-papers, 
an'  cards,  all  printed  up  in  pretty  colors,  to  tell  what 
medicines  to  take  when  you  get  sick." 

"Ah,  patent-medicine  advertisements." 

"Yes;  that's  what  she  calls  'em,  an'  she's  read 
me  some  powerful  amazin'  stories  out  of  'em — them 
as  was  in  short  words — of  folks  that  rose  up  almost 
from  th'  dead!  They're  wonderful!" 

"They  are,  indeed*!" 

"But  what  I  always  liked  th'  best  was  them 
there  papers  tellin'  about  clo'es." 

"Eternal  feminine!" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that,  but  they 
are  mighty  peart,  some  o'  them  dresses  pictured  out 
in  them  there  papers." 

"I've  not  the  least  doubt  of  it" 

"And  I  suppose  they  are  th'  kind  th'  girls  you 
know,  down  in  th'  blue-grass,  wear  for  ev'ry  day!" 
she  sighed. 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


He  looked  at  her  in  quick  compassion  and  in 
protest. 

"Madge,"  he  said,  "please  listen  to  me.  It's  not 
dress  that  makes  the  woman,  any  more  than  it  is 
coats  that  make  the  man.  You  would  like  me  just 
as  well  if  I  were  dressed  in  homespun,  wouldn't 
you?" 

"That's  different." 

"It  isn't ;  it's  not,  a  bit" 

"Laws,  yes!  It's — oh — heaps  different!"  She 
nodded  her  lovely  head  in  firm  conviction.  "It's 
heaps  different  and  I'm  goin'  to  know  more  about 
such  things  as  clo'es.  I  ain't  plumb  poverty  poor, 
like  lots  o'  folks,  here  in  th'  mountings.  I  got  land 
down  in  th'  valley  I  get  rent  from — fifty  dollars, 
every  year!  I'm  goin'  to  find  out  about  such 
things." 

He  looked  at  her,  almost  worried.  It  would  be 
a  pity,  he  thought  instantly,  for  this  charming  child 
of  nature  to  become  sophisticated  and  be  fashion- 
ably gowned;  but,  of  course,  he  made  no  protest. 

"You  can  learn  a  little  something  about  such 
things  if  you  stay  right  here,"  said  he.  "I'm  going 
to  have  visitors,  sometime  before  the  summer's 
over,  at  my  camp.  My  aunt,  Miss  Alathea,  wilj  be 
here,  and  our  old  friend.  Colonel  Sandusky  Doolit- 
tle.  He's  a  great  horseman." 

Instantly  the  girl  showed  vivid  interest,  not,  as 
he  had  thought  she  would,  in  his  aunt,  Miss  Al- 


99 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


athea,  but  in  the  Colonel  from  the  Bluegrass,  who 
also  was  a  horseman. 

"Horseman,  is  he?"  she  exclaimed,  her  eyes 
alight. 

"Yes;  he's  famous  as  a  judge  of  horses." 

"At  them  races  that  they  tell  about  ?  Oh,  I'd  like 
to  see  one  of  them  races!" 

"Yes,  he  goes  to  races,  everywhere,  although  he 
always  means  to  stop  immediately  after  the  next 
one.  It  has  been  the  races  which  have  kept  him 
poor  and  kept  him  single." 

"How've  they  kept  him  poor?" 

He  told  her  about  betting,  while  she  listened, 
wide-eyed  with  amazement  at  the  mention  of  the 
sums  involved. 

"How've  they  kept  him  single?" 

"He's  been  in  love  with  my  Aunt  Alathea  for  a 
good  many  years,  but  she  won't  marry  him  until  he 
keeps  his  promise  to  avoid  the  race-tracks." 

"What  makes  your  aunt  hate  hawsses?" 

"Oh,  she  loves  good  horses,  but  the  Colonel  al- 
ways bets,  and,  as  I  have  said,  it  keeps  him  poor. 
It's  the  gambling  that  she  hates,  and  not  the  horses. 
Every  year  he  plans  to  keep  away  from  all  horse- 
racing  for  her  sake ;  every  year  he  tries  to  do  it,  but 
quite  fails." 

She  laughed  heartily.  "An'  she  thinks  he  loves 
th'  races  more  than  he  does  her?"  she  asked. 
Then,  more  soberly :  "I  don't  know's  I  blame  her, 


100 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


none.  When's  she  comin'?  I'll  be  powerful  glad 
to  see  her." 

"I  don't  know  just  when  she's  coming,  but  she's 
promised  me  to  have  the  Colonel  bring  her  up  here. 
I  want  to  have  her  see  the  beauty  of  the  moun- 
tains." 

"I'll  like  him,  sure,  whether  I  like  her  or  not." 

He  was  astonished.  "But  you  said  you  would 
be  sure  to  love  her!" 

"Uh-huh ;  but  I'd  be  surer  to  like  anyone  who  is 
as  fond  of  hawsses  as  you  say  he  is.  Why,  when 
I  ride " 

"I  didn't  know  you  ever  rode  a  horse.  I've  only 
seen  you  on  your  ox." 

"Poor  old  Buck!  It's  true,  I  have  been  ridin* 
him,  when  I  felt  lazy,  lately,  but  my  pony — ah, 
that's  fun!" 

"Where  is  he?" 

They  had  started  strolling  down  the  trail  and 
were  near  the  pasture  bars,  where  she  had  left  Joe 
Lorey  on  the  morning  of  her  bath,  after  having 
ridden  down  to  them  upon  her  ox. 

She  hurried  to  them,  now,  and,  leaning  over 
them,  puckered  her  red  lips  and  sent  a  shrill,  clear 
whistle  out  across  the  pasture.  Immediately  from 
a  thicket-tangle  at  the  far  end  of  the  half-cleared 
lot  appeared  a  shaggy  pony,  limping  wofully,  but 
with  ears  pricked  forward  as  a  sign  of  welcome  to 
his  mistress. 

"Come  on,  Little  Hawss!"  she  called.     "Come 

101 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


on !  It  hurts,  I  know,  for  you  to  step,  but  come  on, 
just  th'  same.  I  got  a  turnip  for  you." 

She  turned  to  Layson  with  an  explanation. 
"He's  lame,  poor  Little  Hawss  is.  Don't  know's 
he'll  ever  get  all  right  ag'in." 

"Oh!"  said  Layson.  "And  I  didn't  even  know 
you  had  a  horse."  Horses  are  less  common  in  the 
mountains  than  are  oxen,  although  nearly  every 
mountain  farm  has  one,  for  riding.  Oxen,  though, 
are  the  section's  draught-animals. 

"Didn't  think  I  had  a  hawss?"  she  said,  and 
laughed.  "I'd  die  without  a  hawss!  Why,  they 
say,  here  in  the  mountains,  that  I'm  a  good  rider. 
I've  raced  all  the  boys  and  beat  'em  on  my  Little 
Hawss." 

She  petted  the  affectionate,  uncouth  little  beast 
and  fed  him  slowly,  lovingly.  "Little  Hawss,  be- 
fore he  hurt  his  hoof,  was  sure-footed  as  a  deer. 
Didn't  have  to  be  afraid  to  run  him  anywhere,  on 
any  kind  of  road  at  any  time  of  day  or  night,"  said 
she.  "Never  stumbled,  never  missed  the  way,  and, 
while  he  don't  look  much — he  never  did — he  could 
just  carry  me  to  suit  me !  But — well,  I  don't  know 
as  he  will  ever  carry  me  again !" 

Layson,  himself  a  great  horse  lover,  went  up 
to  the  shaggy  little  beast  and  petted  him.  The 
pony  knew  a  friend  instinctively  and  rubbed  his 
nose  against  the  rough  sleeve  of  his  jacket  while 
he  munched  the  turnip. 


102 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Madge  stooped  and  lifted  the  poor  beast's  crip- 
pled foot. 

"Looks  bad,  don't  it?"  she  said  anxiously,  ask- 
ing Frank's  opinion  as  an  expert. 

He  looked  the  bad  foot  over  carefully  and  shook 
his  head. 

"Madge,  I  am  afraid  it  does,"  said  he.  "But  wait 
until  the  Colonel  conies.  He'll  tell  you  what  to  do. 
No  man  knows  horses  better  than  the  Colonel 
does. 

"I've  never  told  you  of  my  horse,  have  I?"  he 
asked. 

"Why,  no;  you  got  one,  too?" 

He  drew  a  long  breath  of  enthusiasm  at  the 
mere  thought  of  his  greatest  treasure.  "Such  a 
mare,"  said  he,  "as  rarely  has  been  seen,  even  in 
Kentucky.  She's  famous  now  and  going  to  be 
more  so.  She's  the  very  apple  of  my  eye." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  wide-eyed  with  a  fasci- 
nated interest.  "What  color  is  she?" 

"Black  as  night." 

"And  gentle?" 

"Ah,  gentle  as  a  dove  with  friends ;  but  she's  not 
gentle  if  she  happens  to  dislike  a  man  or  woman! 
Why,  if  she  hates  you,  keep  away  from  her.  She'll 
side-step  with  a  cunning  that  would  fool  the  wisest 
so's  to  get  a  chance  for  a  left-handed  kick;  she'll 
bite ;  she'll  strike  with  her  forefeet  the  way  a  human 
fighter  would." 


103 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Oh!"  said  the  girl.  "Ain't  it  a  pity  she's  so 
ugly?" 

"I  said  she's  gentle  with  her  friends.  She'd  no 
more  kick  at  me  than  I  would  kick  at  her.  She 
knows  it.  She's  intelligent  beyond  most  horse- 
flesh." 

"Has  she  ever  won  in  races?" 

"She's  won  in  small  events,  and  great  things  are 
expected  of  her  by  more  folk  than  I  when  she  gets 
going  on  the  larger  tracks.  I'm  counting  on  her 
for  good  work  this  year,  after  I  go  home  again." 

"Ah,"  sighed  the  girl,  carried  quite  away  by  his 
excited  talk  about  his  favorite,  "how  I'd  love  to  see 
her  run!" 

"It's  poetry,"  he  granted;  "the  true  poetry  of 
motion." 

"And  this  Gunnel— Gunnel " 

"Colonel  Doolittle?" 

"Uh-huh.  Will  he  help  me,  do  you  s'pose,  to 
get  my  Little  Hawss  cured  of  his  lameness?" 

"You  may  count  on  that." 

"Who  else  is  comin'  here  to  see  you?"  she  in- 
quired, as  they  left  Little  Hawss  wistfully  agaze  at 
them  across  the  old  log  fence. 

Layson,  for  no  reason  he  could  think  of,  felt  a 
bit  uncomfortable,  as  he  replied.  He  temporized 
before  he  really  told  her  of  what  worried  him. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "there'll  be  old  Neb " 

"Who's  he?" 

"A  servant  who  has  been  in  our  family  for  years. 

104 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


He  is  a  fine  old  darkey  and  we  love  him — everyone 
of  us." 

"And  will  he  be  all?" 

"No;  I  understand  that  Mr.  Horace  Holton, 
also,  will  come  with  the  party.  Mr.  Holton  and  his 
daughter." 

It  is  possible  that  he  may  have  flushed  a  little, 
as  he  spoke  about  this  matter,  or  there  may  have 
been  some  slight  hint  of  the  unusual  in  his  voice. 
At  any  rate,  the  notice  of  the  girl  was  instantly 
attracted. 

"Daughter?"  she  inquired. 

"Yes,"  said  Frank,  "his  daughter  Barbara." 

"How  old  is  she?"  Madge's  curiosity  had  been 
aroused  at  once. 

"About  your  age." 

She  was  delighted.    "And  will  I  surely  see  her?" 

"Yes;  of  course." 

"Do  you  suppose  she'll  like  me?" 

Layson,  from  what  he  knew  of  Barbara  Holton, 
scarcely  thought  she  would.  He  could  not  make 
his  fancy  paint  a  picture  of  the  haughty  lowlands 
beauty  showing  much  consideration  for  this  little 
mountain  waif;  but  he  did  not  say  so.  He  an- 
swered hesitatingly,  and  she  noticed  it. 

"You  don't  think  she'll  like  me!"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  didn't  say  so.  Certainly  she'll  like  you.  Who 
could  help  it,  Madge?"  He  smiled.  It  did  not 
seem  to  him,  as  his  eyes  studied  her,  that  anybody 
of  sound  sense  could. 

105 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


She  sighed.  "A  woman  could."  She  spoke  with 
an  instinctive  wisdom  which  her  isolated  life  among 
the  crags  and  peaks  had  not  deprived  her  of.  "A 
woman  always  can.  But,  my,  I  hope  she  will !" 

"She  will,"  said  Frank.  "She  will.  And  my 
dear  Aunt — oh,  you  will  love  her." 

"Miss  Aluth — Aluth ?"  She  stopped,  ques- 

tioningly,  still  bothered  by  the  name. 

"Miss  Alathea,"  he  prompted.  "She'll  like  you 
and  you'll  love  her." 

The  girl  smiled  happily.  "Uh-huh.  Her  acquies- 
cence was  immediate.  "Reckon  maybe  I'll  love  her, 
all  right,  and  I  hope  the  other  will  come  true,  too." 
Suddenly  she  was  stricken  with  a  fear.  "But  she 
won't,  though — dressed  the  way  I  be!" 

"What  you  wear  would  make  no  difference  to  my 
Aunt  Alathea,"  Frank  protested,  "any  more  than 
it  would  make  to  Colonel  Doolittle." 

She  did  not  speak  again  for  quite  a  time,  walk- 
ing along  the  narrow  mountain-path  with  eyes 
fixed,  but  unseeing,  on  the  trail.  It  was  plain  that 
in  her  mind  grave  problems  were  being  closely 
studied. 

"Maybe,"  she  said,  at  length,  "I  won't  be  so 
very  awful  as  you  think!" 

They  had  reached  the  path  which  led  first  to  the 
bridge  across  the  mountain-chasm  making  the  rock 
on  which  her  cabin  stood  an  island,  and  then,  across 
this  draw-bridge,  to  the  cabin  itself.  She  waved 
a  gay  and  unexpected  good-bye  to  him. 

106 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


He  felt  strangely  robbed.  He  had  expected  an- 
other half-hour  with  her.  It  astonished  him  to 
learn  through  this  tiny  disappointment  how  agree- 
able the  little  mountain  maid's  society  had  come 
to  be. 

He  was  wakeful  that  night  till  a  later  hour  than 
usual. 

Somehow  he  was  not  as  thoroughly  delighted  as 
he  felt  that  he  should  be  by  the  prospect  of  his 
guests'  arrival.  His  journey  to  the  mountains  and 
his  sojourn  there  had  been  considered  rather  fool- 
ish by  his  friends,  but  he  had  wished  to  make  quite 
sure  that  what  was  said  about  the  wild  mountain 
lands  which  formed  the  greater  portion  of  his 
patrimony — that  they  were  practically  valueless — 
was  true,  ere  he  gave  up  all  hope  of  profiting  from 
them. 

The  building  of  the  railroad  through  the  valley 
had  imbued  him  with  some  hope  that  they  might 
not  prove  to  be  as  useless  as  they  had  been  thought 
to  be,  and  it  had  been  that  which  had  induced  him, 
at  the  start,  to  make  the  journey. 

Once  arrived  he  had  found  the  mountain  air  de- 
lightful, the  fishing  fine,  the  shooting  all  that  could 
be  wished,  and  had  enjoyed  these  to  their  full,  in- 
vestigating, meanwhile,  his  rough  property;  but  as 
he  lay  there  in  his  shack  of  logs  and  puncheons  he 
acknowledged  to  himself  that  it  was  none  of  these 
things  which  now  made  the  mountains  so  attractive. 
It  was  the  nymph  of  the  woods  pool,  the  mountain- 

107 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


side  Europa  on  her  bull,  his  little  pupil  of  the  alpha- 
bet, in  plain  reality,  who  now  held  him  to  the 
wilderness. 

He  wondered  just  what  this  could  mean.  Could 
it  be  possible  that  he  was  thinking  seriously  of  the 
little  maid  in  that  way? 

He  almost  laughed  at  the  idea,  there  alone  in 
the  woods  cabin,  with  the  stars  in  their  deep  velvet 
canopy  twinkling  through  the  window  at  him  and 
the  glow  of  his  cob  pipe  for  company. 

But  his  laugh  was  not  too  genuine.  He  found 
himself,  to  his  amazement,  comparing  Madge,  the 
mountain  girl,  with  Barbara  Holton,  the  elegant 
daughter  of  the  lowlands,  and  rinding  many  points 
in  favor  of  the  little  rustic  maiden.  He  wondered 
just  how  serious  his  attentions  to  fair  Barbara  had 
been  thought  to  be  by  her,  her  father,  Horace  Hol- 
ton, and  by  other  people.  There  were  many  things 
about  Madge  Brierly,  which,  as  he  sat  there,  re- 
flective, he  found  admirable,  besides  her  vivid,  vig- 
orous young  beauty.  He  could  not  bring  himself, 
as  he  sat  thinking  of  the  two  girls,  widely  separ- 
ated as  they  were  in  the  great  social  plane,  unevenly 
matched  as  they  had  been  in  early  training,  to  ad- 
mit that  the  whole  advantage  was  upon  the  side 
of  Barbara  Holton. 

And  above  him,  in  her  lonely  little  cabin  on 
the  towering  rock,  upon  all  sides  of  which  the 
mountain-torrent,  making  it  an  isle  of  safety  for 
her  there  in  the  wilderness,  roared  rythmically,  the 

108 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


mountain  maiden  who  so  occupied  his  thoughts 
was  busy  with  her  crude  wardrobe. 

In  complete  dissatisfaction  she  put  aside,  at 
length,  every  garment  of  her  own  which  she  pos- 
sessed as  unsuitable  for  the  great  day  when  she 
was  to  meet  the  blue-grass  gentlefolk. 

Then,  remembering  suddenly  an  old  chest  which 
held  her  mother's  wedding  finery,  she  strained  her 
fine  young  muscles  as  she  dragged  it  out  of  stor- 
age ;  and  sitting  on  the  floor  beside  it  where  the 
great  blaze  of  pine-knots  in  the  big  "mud-and- 
broke-rock"  fireplace  lighted  it  and  her  with  flick- 
ering brilliance,  she  went  through  it  with  reverent 
fingers,  searching,  searching  for  such  garments 
and  such  adornments  as  it  might  hold  to  make  her 
fit  to  meet  the  friends  of  the  young  lowlander  who 
had  captured  her  imagination  with  his  bravery,  re- 
source and  courtesy. 

There  were  a  few  things  in  the  chest  which 
pleased  her,  and  she  smiled  as  she  discovered  them, 
smiled  as  she  tried  them  on,  smiled  as  she  saw  the 
image  wearing  them  in  the  cracked  mirror  by  the 
side  of  the  big  fireplace.  She  had  to  make  experi- 
ments with  dripping  tallow  dips  before  she  got  a 
light  which  would  enable  her  to  get  the  full  effect 
of  an  ornate  old  poke-bonnet  which  was  the  chief 
treasure  from  the  chest,  but  finally  she  did  so,  and 
exclaimed  in  pleasure  as  she  managed  it. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  charming  picture  which  she 
saw  there  in  the  glass — a  face  with  rosy  cheeks, 

109 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


bright  eyes,  red  lips  set  off  with  softly  waving 
auburn  hair  and  framed  delightfully  in  the  old 
arch  of  shirred  red  silk — and  when  she  took  it  off, 
at  last,  she  was  convinced  that  one,  at  least,  of  her 
big  problems  had  been  solved.  She  had  a  bonnet, 
certainly,  which  was  as  lovely  as  the  finest  thing 
that  any  blue-grass  belle  could  wear.  There  was  not 
the  slightest  doubt  that  all  its  shirring  was  of  real, 
real  silk!  She  had  run  her  fingers  over  it  caress- 
ingly, delighted  by  its  sheen  and  gloss  when  she 
had  been  a  little  girl;  now  she  fondled  it  with 
loving  touch,  high  hopes.  Surely  no  young  lady 
visitor,  even  from  the  far  off  and  to  her  mysterious 
blue-grass  could  have  anything  much  finer  than  that 
bonnet  with  its  silken  facings!  She  tied  the  wide 
strings  underneath  her  chin  in  a  great,  flaring  bow, 
and  peeped  forth  from  the  cavernous  depths  of  the 
arched  "poke"  with  quite  unconscious  coquetry, 
flirting,  with  the  keenest  relish  and  most  completely 
childish  pleasure  with  the  charming  creature  whom 
she  saw  reflected  on  the  little  mirror's  cracked,  im- 
perfect surface. 

It  was  while  she  stood  thus,  innocently  coquet- 
ting with  her  own  delightful  picture,  that  a  great 
plan  for  the  plenishment  of'her  otherwise  imperfect 
wardrobe  popped  into  her  active,  searching  mind. 
Carefully  she  considered  this,  first  before  the  glass 
and  then,  with  feet  crossed  and  clasped  hands  be- 
tween her  knees,  before  the  roaring  fire  of  resinous 
pine-knots  in  the  old  fireplace. 

no 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Having  finally  decided  that  it  was  a  good  one, 
she  went  about  the  cabin  seeing  to  the  fastenings 
of  doors  and  windows,  wholly  unafraid  despite  her 
solitude.  There  was  but  one  way  of  approaching 
this,  her  fastness  in  the  rocks,  and  the  bridge,  had 
been  drawn  up  for  the  night.  Safe  she  was  as  any 
Rhenish  baron  in  his  moated  stronghold. 

Conscious  that  a  busy  day  was  looming  large 
before  her,  she  now  blew  out  her  candles  and  crept 
into  her  little  curtained  bed,  to  dream,  there,  viv- 
idly, of  haughty  beauties  from  the  blue-grass 
staring  in  astonishment  as  they  first  glimpsed  the 
beauty  of  a  little  mountain  girl  in  such  a  gorgeous 
outfit  as  they  had  not  in  all  their  pampered  lives 
conceived ;  of  lovely  aunts  who  smiled  with  pleasure 
when  they  saw  their  handsome  nephews  step  up  to 
this  splendid  maiden  and  take  her  hands  in  theirs; 
of  wondrous  youths — ah,  these  images  were  never 
absent  from  the  scenes  her  fancy  painted! — who 
scorned  the  haughty  blue-grass  beauties  in  favor  of 
the  freckled  little  fists  of  those  same  brilliant  moun- 
tain maidens,  and,  lo !  by  taking  those  same  freckled 
fists  in  theirs,  removed  the  freckles  and  the  callouses 
of  work  as  if  by  magic,  making  them  as  white  and 
fine — aye,  whiter,  finer! — than  the  haughty  blue- 
grass  beauty's.  And  in  her  dreams,  too,  was  a  gal- 
lant horseman,  wise  in  equine  ways,  who  came  to 
her  with  handsome  chargers  trailing  from  fair- 
leather  lead  straps  to  present  her  with  the  thor- 
oughbreds because  her  little,  shaggy  pony  limped. 

ill 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Queer  fancies  of  the  strange  life  of  the  low- 
lands which  he  had  described  to  her,  flashed,  also, 
through  her  ignorant  but  active  brain  in  fascinat- 
ing visions.  She  thought  she  saw  the  houses  on 
the  tops  of  houses  which  he  had  described  to  her,  in 
efforts  to  assist  her  to  imagine  structures  more 
elaborate  than  the  little,  single  storied  cabins  which 
were  all  that  she  had  ever  seen.  Strange  concep- 
tions of  the  railroad,  with  its  monstrous  engines 
puffing  smoke  and  fire  would  have  been  terrifying 
had  there  not  been,  ever  at  her  side  as  dreams  re- 
vealed them,  a  stalwart  youth  in  corduroys  to  bear 
her  from  their  path  through  rings  of  burning  thick- 
ets. 

Again  she  trembled  in  imagination  at  the  thought 
of  meeting  the  fine  ladies  who  would  be  dressed 
with  such  elaboration  and  impressive  elegance;  but 
each  time,  when  her  dream  seemed  actually  to  lead 
her  to  them,  there  he  was  to  help  her  through  the 
great  ordeal  with  heartening  smiles  and  comfort- 
ing suggestions. 

Her  sleep  was  restless,  but  delightful.  Once  she 
woke  and  left  her  bed  to  peer  out  of  the  window, 
wondering  if,  by  chance,  she  might  not  glimpse  a 
light  in  Layson's  camp  far  down  the  mountain- 
side. She  was  disappointed  when  she  found  she 
could  not,  but  went  back  to  bed  to  find  there  further 
compensating  dreams. 

There  might  have  been  still  greater  compensa- 
tion for  her  had  she  known  that  at  the  very  mo- 

112 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


ment  when  she  peered  out  through  the  darkness, 
looking  for  some  vagrant  glimmer  of  a  light  from 
Layson's  camp,  he  had,  himself,  just  gone  back  to 
his  cabin  after  having  stood  a  long  time  staring 
through  the  darkness  toward  her  own  small  cabin 
in  its  fastness. 

He  was  thinking,  thinking,  thinking.  The  little 
mountain  maid  had  strangely  fascinated  the  highly 
cultivated  youth  from  the  far  blue-grass.  He  did 
not  know  quite  what  to  make  of  the  queer  way  in 
which  her  fresh  and  lovely,  girlish  face,  obtruded 
itself  constantly  into  his  thoughts.  And  as  for  the 
haughty  blue-grass  belle  whom  poor  Madge  dreaded 
so — he  did  not  think  of  her,  at  all,  save,  possibly, 
with  half  acknowledged  annoyance  at  the  fact  that 
she  was  coming  to  spy  out  his  wilderness  and  those 
who  dwelt  therein.  He  would  have  been  a  little 
happier  if  he  could  have  remained  there,  undis- 
turbed, for  a  time  longer. 

Day  had  not  dawned  when  Madge  awoke.  The 
sun,  indeed,  had  just  begun  to  poke  the  red  edge 
of  his  disc  above  Mount  Nebo,  when,  having  built 
her  fire  and  cooked  her  frugal  breakfast,  she  loosed 
the  rope  which  held  the  crude,  small  drawbridge 
up  and  lowered  the  rickety  old  platform  until  it 
gave  a  pathway  over  the  deep  chasm  and  carried 
her  to  the  mainland,  ready  for  the  journey  to  the 
distant  cross-roads  store. 

Dew,  sparkling  like  cut  diamonds,  cool  as  melt- 
ing ice,  was  everywhere  in  the  brilliant  freshness 

"3 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


of  the  morning;  the  birds  were  busy  with  their  gos- 
sip and  their  foraging,  chattering  greetings  to  her 
as  she  passed;  in  her  pasture  her  cow,  Sukey,  had 
not  risen  yet  from  her  comfortable  night  posture 
when  she  reached  her.  The  animal  looked  up 
gravely  at  her,  chewing  calmly  on  her  cud,  plainly 
not  approving,  quite,  of  such  a  very  early  call. 
While  the  girl  sat  on  the  one-legged  stool  beside 
her,  sending  white,  rich,  fragrant  streams  into  the 
resounding  pail,  her  shaggy  Little  Hawss  limped 
up,  nosing  at  her  pocket  for  a  turnip,  which  he 
found,  of  course,  abstracted  cleverly  and  munched. 

Having  finished  with  the  cow  she  set  the  milk  in 
a  fence-corner  to  wait  for  her  return,  and,  when 
she  left  the  lot,  the  pony  followed  her,  making  a 
difficult,  limping  way  along  the  inside  of  the  rough 
stump- fence  until  he  came  to  a  cross  barrier.  Then, 
as  he  saw  that  she  was  going  on  and  leaving  him 
behind,  he  nickered  lonesomely,  and,  although  she 
planned,  that  day  to  accomplish  many,  many  things, 
and,  in  consequence,  was  greatly  pressed  for  time, 
she  went  back  to  him  and  petted  him  a  moment 
and  then  found  another  turnip  for  him  in  her 
pocket 

The  journey  which  began,  thus,  with  calls  on 
her  four-footed  friends,  was  solitary,  afterward, 
although  in  the  narrow  road-bed,  here  and  there, 
she  saw  impressions  of  preceding  foot-steps,  big 
and  deep.  They  aroused  hec  curiosity,  and  with 
keen  instinct  of  the  woods  she  studied  one  of  them 

114 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


elaborately.  Rising  from  her  pondering  above  it 
she  decided  that  Joe  Lorey  had  gone  on  before  her, 
and  wondered  what  could  possibly  have  sent  him 
down  the  trail  so  early  in  the  morning.  When  she 
noted  that  his  trail  turned  off  at  the  cross-roads 
which  might  lead  to  Layson's  camp  (or  other 
places)  her  heart  sank  for  a  moment.  She  realized 
how  bitterly  the  mountaineer  felt  toward  the  blue- 
grass  youth  whom  he  considered  his  successful  rival 
and  she  hoped  that  trouble  would  not  come  of  it. 
She  did  not  love  Joe  Lorey  as  he  wished  to  have 
her  love  him,  but  she  had  a  very  real  affection  for 
him,  none  the  less.  And — and — she  did — she  did 
— she  did — this  morning  she  acknowledged  it! — 
love  Layson.  The  matter  worried  her,  somewhat. 
Trouble  between  the  men  was  more  than  possible, 
she  knew;  but,  on  reflection,  she  decided  that  Joe 
had  not  been  bound  for  Layson's  camp,  but,  by  a 
short  cut,  to  the  distant  valley.  This  alone  would 
have  explained  his  very  early  start.  He  was  not 
one  to  seek  to  take  his  enemy  while  sleeping,  and 
she  knew  and  knew  he  knew  that  the  lowlander  slept 
late.  Lorey  would  not  do  a  thing  dishonorable. 
She  put  the  thought  of  trouble  that  day  from  her, 
therefore,  yielding  gladly  to  the  joyous  and  ab- 
sorbing magic  of  the  growing,  splendid  morning. 
The  rising  sun,  with  its  ever  changing  spectacle, 
exhilerating,  splendid,  awe-inspiring,  there  among 
the  mountains,  raised  her  spirits  as  she  travelled, 
and  drove  gloomy  thoughts  away  as  it  drove  off 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


the  brooding  mists  which  clung  persistently,  tear- 
ing themselves  to  tattered  ribbons  ere  they  would 
loose  their  hold  upon  the  peaks  beyond  the  valley 
and  behind  her. 

A  feeling  of  elation  grew  in  her — elation  born  of 
her  abounding  health,  fine  youth,  the  glory  of  the 
scene,  the  high  intoxication  of  first  love. 

She  beguiled  the  way  with  mountain  ballads, 
paused,  here  and  there,  to  pluck  some  lovely  flower, 
accumulating,  presently,  a  nosegay  so  enormous  as 
to  be  almost  unwieldy,  whistled  to  the  birds  and 
smiled  as  they  sent  back  their  answers,  laughed  at 
the  fierce  scolding  of  a  squirrel  on  a  limb,  heard  the 
doleful  wailing  of  young  foxes  and  crept  near 
enough  their  burrow  to  see  them  huddled  in  the 
sand  before  it,  waiting  eagerly  for  their  foraging 
mother  and  the  breakfast  she  would  bring. 

When  the  trail  crossed  a  clear  brook  she  paused 
upon  the  crude,  low  bridge  and  watched  the  trout 
dart  to  and  fro  beneath  it;  where  it  debouched 
upon  a  hill-side  of  commanding  view  she  stopped 
there,  breathing  hard  from  sheer  enjoyment  of  the 
glory  of  the  prospect  spread  before  her  in  the  val- 
ley. 

She  was  very  happy,  as  she  almost  always  was 
of  summer  mornings.  The  mountain  air,  circulat- 
ing in  her  young  and  sturdy  lungs,  was  almost  as 
intoxicating  as  strong  wine  and  made  the  blood 
leap  through  her  arteries,  thrill  through  her  veins. 

The  worries  of  the  night  before  seemed,  for  a 

116 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


time,  to  have  been  groundless.  She  ceased  to  fear 
her  meeting  with  the  blue-grass  gentlefolk  and 
looked  forward  to  it  with  real  confidence  and  pleas- 
ure. Her  confidence  in  Layson  was  abounding,  and 
she  assured  herself  till  the  thought  became  convic- 
tion that  he  never  would  permit  her  to  subject  her- 
self to  anything  which  properly  could  be  humiliat- 
ing. 

The  problem  of  her  garb,  too,  began  to  seem 
far  less  insoluble  than  it  had  seemed  the  night  be- 
fore. She  felt  certain,  as  she  travelled  with  her 
springing  step,  that  she  would  find  it  possible  to 
meet  creditably  the  great  emergency  with  what  she 
had  at  home  and  could  discover  at  the  little  general- 
store  which  she  was  bound  for. 

When  she  reached  the  tiny,  mud-chinked  struc- 
ture at  the  cross-roads,  though,  and  caught  her  first 
glimpse  of  its  lightly  burdened  shelves,  her  heart 
sank  for  an  instant.  Could  it  be  possible  that  from 
its  stock  she  would  be  able  to  select  material  with 
which  she  could  compete  with  folk  from  the  far 
blue-grass  in  elegance  of  garb? 

But  after  she  had  made  investigation  and  had 
interested  in  her  project  the  lank  mountain-woman 
who  presided  at  the  counter,  she  lost  fear  of  the 
result.  Together  they  made  careful  study  of  the 
fashion-papers  which  the  woman  had  preserved 
and  which  the  girl  had,  the  night  before,  remem- 
bered with  such  vividness.  Through  discussion  and 
reiterated  reassurance  from  her  friend,  she  finally 

117 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


arrived  at  the  decision  that  with  what  she  had  at 
hand  at  home  and  what  she  could  buy  here,  she 
could  prepare  herself  to  meet  the  elegant  lowlanders 
with  a  fairly  ample  rivalry. 

,  There  were  few  bolts  of  cloth,  of  whatever  qual- 
ity or  character  in  the  pitiful  little  general-store's 
stock  which  both  women  did  not  finger  specula- 
tively  that  morning;  there  was  not  a  piece  of  pinch- 
beck jewelry  in  the  small  showcase  which  they  did 
not  study  carefully.  Especially  Madge  dwelt  on 
combs,  for  Layson,  once,  had  mentioned  combs  as 
parts  of  the  adornment  of  the  women  whom  he 
knew.  There  in  the  mountains  young  girls  did 
not  wear  them,  save  of  the  "circular"  variety,  de- 
signed to  hold  back  "shingled"  tresses.  But  from 
underneath  a  box  of  faded  gum-drops  and  the 
store's  one  carton  of  cigars,  came  some  of  imitation 
tortoise-shell,  gilt  ornamented,  of  the  sort  old  ladies 
sometimes  stuck  into  their  hirsute  knots  for  moun- 
tain "doings"  of  great  elegance,  and  the  best  of 
these  Madge  bought.  Also  she  bought  lace — great 
quantities  of  it,  although,  even  after  she  had  made 
the  purchase,  she  had  some  doubt  of  just  what  she 
would  do  with  it;  she  also  had  some  doubt  about 
its  quality,  for  in  the  chest  at  home  there  had  been 
lace,  ripped  from  her  mother's  wedding  gown,  of 
far  different  and  more  convincing  texture  and  de- 
sign. She  realized,  however,  that  what  was  there 
must  be  what  must  suffice  and  purchased  nearly  all 


118 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


the  woman  had  of  cheap,  machine-made  mesh  and 
home-worked,  coarse-threaded  tatting. 

She  could  not  manage  gloves.  The  store  had 
never  had  gloves  in  its  stock  designed  for  anything 
but  warmth,  and,  although  Layson  had  explained  to 
her,  in  answer  to  her  curious  pleadings,  that  the 
girls  he  knew  down  in  the  blue-grass  sometimes 
wore  gloves  covering  their  bare  arms  to  the  elbows, 
she  gave  up  the  hope  of  finding  anything  of  that 
sort  without  a  visit  to  the  distant  valley  town,  and 
this  was  quite  impossible,  now  that  her  pony  had 
gone  lame,  so  she  sighed  and  gave  up  gloves  en- 
tirely. 

But  she  bought  ribbons  by  the  bolt,  some  gay 
silk-handkerchiefs,  a  little  of  the  less  obtrusive  of 
the  jewelry,  and  needles,  thread  and  such  small 
trifles  by  the  score  to  be  utilized  in  making  altera- 
tions in  the  finery  from  her  dead  mother's  treasure 
chest  at  home  there  in  the  mountain  cabin.  It  was 
with  heart  not  quite  so  doubtful  of  her  own  ability 
to  shine  a  bit,  that,  after  she  had  borrowed  every 
fashion-plate  the  woman  owned  (many  of  them  ten 
years  old;  not  one  of  them  of  later  date  than  five 
years  previous),  she  set  out  upon  the  long  and 
weary  homeward  way. 

Instinctively  as  she  progressed  she  searched  the 
soft  mud  in  the  shadowed  places  of  the  road,  the 
soft  sand  wherever  it  appeared,  for  signs  that  those 
great  foot-marks  which  she  had  thought  she  could 
identify  as  Lorey's  in  the  morning,  had  returned 

119 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


while  she  was  at  the  store.  Nowhere  was  there  any 
trace  that  this  had  happened,  and  again  she  thrilled 
with  apprehension.  Almost  she  made  a  detour  by 
the  road  which  led  to  Layson's  camp  to  make  quite 
sure  that  all  was  right  with  the  young  "foreigner," 
but  this  idea  she  abandoned  as  much  because  she 
felt  that  such  a  visit  would  necessitate  an  explana- 
tion which  she  would  dislike  to  make,  as  because 
her  many  burdens  would  have  made  the  way  a  long 
and  difficult  one  to  tread.  How  could  she  tell  Lay- 
son  that  Joe  Lorey  might  resent  his  helping  her  to 
study,  might  resent  the  other  hours  which  they  had 
spent  so  pleasantly  among  the  mountain  rocks  and 
forest  trees  together,  might,  in  short,  be  jealous  of 
him? 

Her  shy,  maiden  soul  revolted  at  the  thought 
and  perforce  she  gave  investigation  up,  her 
thoughts,  finally,  turning  from  the  really  remote 
chance  of  a  difficulty  between  the  men  to  the  pleas- 
anter  task  of  carrying  on  her  planning  for  new 
gowns  and  small  accessories  of  finery. 

The  homeward  way  was  longer  than  the  journey 
down  had  been,  because  of  her  new  burdens  and  the 
frequently  steep  mountain  slopes  which  she  must 
climb,  but  she  travelled  it  without  much  thought  of 
this. 

Never  in  her  life  had  come  excitement  equal  to 
that  which  possessed  her  as  she  thought  about  the 
visitors,  longed  to  make  a  good  impression  and  not 
shame  her  friend,  wondered  how  the  blue-grass 

1 20 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


ladies  would  be  dressed,  would  talk,  would  act,  and 
what  they  all  would  think  of  her.  She  had  de- 
cided, in  advance,  that  she  would  like  Miss  Al- 
athea,  aunt  of  her  woodland  instructor;  she  knew 
positively  that  she  would  like  the  doughty  colonel, 
lover  of  god  horses,  barred  from  racing  by  his  love 
for  Frank's  inexorable  aunt. 

But  the  other  members  of  the  party  he  had  told 
about — the  Holtons — she  was  not  so  sure  that  she 
would  care  for  them.  Frank,  himself,  when  he  had 
told  her  of  them,  had  spoken  of  the  father  without 
much  enthusiasm,  and  she  felt  quite  sure  that  she 
could  never  like  the  daughter.  She  had  noticed, 
she  believed,  that  when  it  came  to  talk  of  her  her 
friend  had  hesitated  with  embarrassment.  Could 
it  be  possible  that  this  young  lady  who  had  had  the 
chances  she,  herself,  had  been  denied,  for  educa- 
tion and  for  everything  desirable,  would  seem  to 
him,  when  she  appeared  upon  the  scene,  less  lovely, 
less  desirable,  than  a  simple  little  mountain  maid 
like  poor  Madge  Brierly?  The  thought  seemed 
quite  incredible  and  the  worry  of  it  quite  absorbed 
her  for  a  time  and  drove  away  forebodings  about 
the  possible  hatred  of  Joe  Lorey  for  Layson  and  his 
possible  expression  of  resentment.  She  even  ceased 
her  wonderings  about  the  footsteps  which  had  gone 
down  the  road,  that  morning,  and  which,  so  far 
as  she  could  see,  had  not  come  back  again. 


121 


CHAPTER  VI 

They  were,  indeed,  the  great  imprints  of  Joe 
Lorey's  hob-nailed  boots,  quite  as  she  suspected. 
Long  before  the  sun  had  risen  the  young  moun- 
taineer, distressed  by  worries  which  had  made  his 
night  an  almost  sleepless  one,  had  risen  and  wan- 
dered from  his  little  cabin,  lonelier  in  its  far  soli- 
tude, even  than  the  girl's.  For  a  time  he  had 
crouched  upon  a  stump  beneath  the  morning  stars 
with  lowering  brows,  sunk  deep  in  harsh,  resentful 
thought,  forgetful  of  the  falling  dew,  the  chill  of 
the  keen  mountain  air,  of  everything,  in  fact,  save 
the  gnawing  apprehension  that  the  "foreigner," 
who  had  invaded  this  far  mountain  solitude  might, 
with  his  better  manners,  infinitely  better  education 
and  divers  other  devilish  wiles  of  the  low  country, 
snatch  from  him  the  prize  which  he  had  grown  up 
longing  to  possess. 

The  youthful  mountaineer's  distress  was  not 
without  its  pathos.  He  loved  the  girl,  had  loved 
her  since  they  had  been  toddling  children  playing  in 
the  hills  together.  Never  for  an  instant  had  his 
firm  devotion  to  her  wandered  to  any  other  of  the 

122 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


mountain  girls;  never  for  an  instant  had  he  had 
any  hope  but  that  of,  some  day,  winning  her.  That 
he  recognized  the  real  superiority  of  Layson  made 
his  worry  the  more  tragic,  for  it  made  it  the  more 
hopeless. 

A  dull  resentment  thrilled  him,  not  only  against 
this  man,  but  against  the  whole  tribe  of  his  people, 
who  were,  in  these  uncomfortable  days,  invading 
the  rough  country  which,  to  that  time,  had  been  the 
undisputed  domain  of  the  mountaineer.  He 
thought  with  bitterness  about  the  growing  valley 
towns,  which  he  had  sometimes  visited  on  court 
days  when  some  mountain  man  had  been  haled  there 
to  trial  for  moonshining  or  for  a  feud  "killing." 
He  did  not  understand  those  lowland  people  who 
assumed  the  right  to  dictate  to  him  and  his  kind 
as  to  the  lives  which  they  should  lead  in  their  own 
country,  and  he  hated  them  instinctively.  Vaguely 
he  felt  the  greater  power  which  education  and  a 
rubbing  of  their  elbows  with  the  progress  of  the 
world  had  given  them  and  definitely  resented  it. 
Scotch  highlander  never  felt  a  greater  hatred  and 
distrust  of  lowland  men  than  does  the  highlander 
of  the  old  Cumberlands  feel  for  the  people  who 
have  claimed  the  rich  and  fertile  bottom  lands,  filled 
the  towns  which  have  sprung  up  there,  established 
the  prosperity  which  has,  through  them,  advanced 
the  state.  The  mountain  men  of  Tennessee  and  of 
Kentucky  are  almost  as  primitive,  to-day,  as  were 
their  forefathers,  who,  early  in  the  great  transcon- 

123 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


tinental  migration,  dropped  from  its  path  and 
spread  among  the  hills  a  century  ago,  rather  than 
continue  with  the  weary  march  to  more  fertile, 
fabled  lands  beyond. 

It  had  not  been,  as  Madge  had  feared,  his  definite 
hatred  of  Frank  Layson  which  had  started  him 
upon  the  road  so  early  in  the  morning,  but,  rather, 
an  unrest  born  of  the  whole  problem  of  the  "for- 
eigners' "  invasion  of  the  mountains.  His  restless 
discontent  with  Layson's  presence  had  left  him 
ready  for  excitement  over  wild  tales  told  in  store 
and  cabin  of  what  the  young  man's  fellows  were 
doing  in  the  valley.  He  had  determined  to  go 
thither  for  himself,  to  see  with  his  own  eyes  the 
wonder-workers,  although  he  hated  both  the  won- 
ders and  the  men  who  were  accomplishing  them. 

What  did  the  mountain-country  want  of  rail- 
roads? What  did  it  want  of  towns?  The  rail- 
roads would  but  bring  more  interlopers  and  in  the 
towns  they  would  foregather,  arrogant  in  their  firm 
determination  to  force  upon  the  men  who  had  first 
claimed  the  country  their  artificial  rules  and  regula- 
tions. Timid  in  their  fear  of  those  they  sought  to 
furtively  dislodge  and  of  the  rough  love  these  men 
showed  of  a  liberty  including  license,  they  would 
huddle  in  their  storied  buildings,  crowd  in  their 
trammelled  streets,  work  and  worry  in  their  little 
offices  absurdly,  harmfully  to  the  rights  of  proper 
men.  Like  other  mountaineers  Joe  had  small  reali- 
zation of  the  advantages  of  easy  interchange  of 

124 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


thought  and  the  quick  commerce  which  come  with 
aggregation.  He  thought  the  concentration  of  the 
townsfolk  was  a  sign  of  an  unmanly  dread  of  those 
first  settlers  whom  they  wished  to  drive  away  un- 
justly, subjugate  and  ruin. 

Throughout  the  mountains  blazed  a  fierce  resent- 
ment of  the  railroad  builders'  presence  andv  their 
work ;  in  no  heart  did  it  burn  more  fiercely  than  in 
poor  Joe  Lorey's,  for  the  fear  obsessed  him  that  a 
member  of  the  army  of  invaders  had  succeeded  in 
depriving  him  of  the  last  chance  of  getting  that 
which,  among  all  things  on  earth,  he  longed  for 
most — Madge  Brierly's  love.  He  did  not  stop  to 
think  that  before  the  "foreigner"  had  come  the  girl 
had  more  than  once  refused  to  marry  him,  beg- 
ging him  to  remain  her  good,  kind  friend.  Such 
episodes,  in  those  days,  had  not  in  the  least  dis- 
heartened him.  He  had  always  thought  that  in  the 
end  the  girl  would  "have  him."  But  now  he  was 
convinced  his  chance  was  gone,  his  last  hope  van- 
ished. The  "foreigner"  had  fascinated  Madge, 
made  him  look  cheap  and  coarse,  uncouth  and  un- 
desirable. 

As  he  had  walked  along  the  roads  which,  later  in 
the  morning,  Madge  had  followed,  he  had  frowned 
blackly  at  the  sunrise  and  the  waking  birds,  kicked 
viciously  at  little  sticks  and  stones  which  chanced 
along  his  way.  Never  a  smile  had  he  for  chatter- 
ing squirrel  or  scampering  chipmunk;  fierce,  repel- 
lant  was  the  brown  brow  of  the  mountaineer,  de- 

125 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


spite  the  glory  of  the  morning,  and  black  the  heart 
within  him  with  sheer  hatred  of  Frank  Layson  and 
the  class  he  represented. 

His  journey  was  much  longer  than  the  girl's,  for 
it  did  not  end  till  he  had  reached  the  rude  construc- 
tion camp  of  the  advancing  railroad  builders  in  the 
valley  far  below  the  little  mountain-store.  There 
he  gazed  at  what  was  going  on  with  a  child's  won- 
der, which,  at  first,  almost  made  him  lose  his  mem- 
ory of  what  he  thought  his  wrongs,  but,  later,  ag- 
gravated it  by  emphasizing  in  his  mind  his  own 
great  ignorance. 

Through  a  tiny  temporary  town  of  corrugated 
iron  shanties,  crude  log-and-brush  and  rough-plank 
sheds,  white  canvas  tents,  ran  the  raw,  heaped  earth 
of  the  embankment.  About  it  swarmed  a  thousand 
swarthy  laborers,  chattering  in  a  tongue  less  easy 
to  his  ears  than  the  harsh  scoldings  of  the  squirrels 
he  had  seen  while  on  his  way.  Back  behind  them 
stretched  two  lines  of  shining  rails,  which,  even  as 
he  watched,  advanced,  advanced  on  the  embank- 
ment, being  firmly  spiked  upon  their  cross-ties  so 
as  to  form  a  highway  for  the  cars  which  brought 
more  dirt,  more  dirt,  more  dirt  to  send  the  raw  em- 
bankment on  ahead  of  them. 

At  first  the  puffing,  steam-spitting,  fire-spouting 
locomotive  with  its  deafening  exhaust  and  strident 
whistle,  clanging  bell  and  glowing  fire-box  actually 
frightened  him.  As  he  stood  close  by  the  track  and 
it  carne  on  threateningly,  he  backed  away,  his  rifle 

126 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


held  in  his  crooked  arm,  ready  for  some  great 
emergency,  he  knew  not  what.  A  laborer  laughed 
at  him,  and  his  hands  instinctively  took  firmer  grip 
upon  the  rifle.  The  laborer  stopped  laughing. 

Some  lessons  of  the  temper  of  the  mountaineers 
already  had  been  learned  along  the  line  of  that  new 
railroad,  and,  driven  from  his  wrath  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  new  marvels,  Joe,  at  greater  distance, 
sat  upon  a  stump  and  watched,  wide-eyed,  and  un- 
disturbed, unridiculed. 

For  a  long  time  his  resentment  wholly  drowned 
itself  in  wonder  at  the  puzzle  of  the  engines,  the 
mechanism  of  the  dump-cars,  the  wondrous  work- 
ing of  the  small  steam  crane  which  lifted  rails  from 
flat-cars,  and,  as  a  strong  man  guided  them, 
dropped  them  with  precision  at  the  time  and  place 
decided  on  beforehand.  He  noted  how  the  men 
worked  in  great  gangs,  subject  to  the  orders  of 
one  "boss,"  a  phenomenon  of  organization  he  had 
never  seen  before,  with  unwilling  admiration. 

But  presently,  from  a  point  well  in  advance  of 
that  where  rails  already  had  been  laid  and  upon 
which  his  attention  had  been  concentrated  because 
of  the  machinery  there,  there  came  a  mighty  boom 
of  dynamite.  It  startled  him  so  greatly  that  he 
sprang  up,  bewildered,  ready  for  whatever  might 
be  coming,  but  wholly  at  a  loss  as  to  just  what  the 
threatening  danger  might  be.  His  fright  gave  rise 
to  jeering  laughter  from  the  men  who  had  been 
watching  with  a  covert  eye  the  rough,  determined 

127 


L\  OLD  KENTUCKY 


looking  mountaineer,  squatting  on  the  stump  with 
rifle  on  his  arm.  He  turned  on  them  so  fiercely  that 
they  shrank  back,  terrified  by  the  look  they  saw  in 
his  grey  eyes. 

Then,  noting  that  the  noise  had  not  appalled 
them  in  the  least  and  assuming  that  what  was  surely 
safe  for  them  was  safe  enough  for  him,  he  saun- 
tered down  the  line,  attempting  to  seem  careless  in 
his  walk,  until  he  reached  the  gang  which  was  busy 
at  destruction  of  a  high,  obstructive  cropping  of 
grey  granite. 

For  hours  he  sat  there  watching  them  with  curi- 
osity. He  saw  them  pierce  the  rocks  with  ham- 
mered drills;  he  saw  them  then  put  in  a  small, 
round,  harmless  looking  paper  cylinder  which,  of 
course,  he  knew  held  something  like  gunpowder ;  he 
saw  them  tamp  it  down  with  infinite  care,  leaving 
only  a  protruding  'fuse ;  he  saw  them  light  the  fuse 
and  scamper  off  to  a  safe  distance  while  he  watched 
the  sputtering  sparks  run  down  the  fuse,  pause  at 
the  tamping,  then,  having  pierced  it,  disappear. 
The  great  explosions  which  succeeded  were,  at  first, 
a  little  hard  upon  his  nerves,  but  he  saw  that  those 
who  compassed  them  did  not  flinch  when  they 
came,  and,  after  he  had  dodged  ridiculously  at  the 
first,  received  the  second  with  a  greater  calm,  keyed 
himself  to  almost  motionless  reception  of  the  third, 
and  managed  to  sit  listening  to  the  fourth  with  self- 
possession  quite  as  great  as  theirs,  his  face  impas- 
sive and  his  frame  immovable. 

128 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


He  noted  with  amazement  the  great  force  of  the 
infernal  power  the  burning  fuses  loosed,  and  knew, 
instinctively,  that  the  explosive  was  a  stronger  one 
than  that  with  which  he  had  been  thoroughly  famil- 
iar since  his  earliest  childhood — gunpowder.  He 
wondered  mightily  what  it  could  be,  and,  finally, 
summoned  courage  to  inquire  of  one  of  the  swart 
laborers. 

These  were  the  first  words  he  had  spoken  that 
day,  and,  although  the  man  was  courteous  enough  in 
answering,  "Dynamite,"  he  thought  he  saw  a  smile 
upon  his  face  of  veiled  derision,  and  resented  it  so 
fiercely  that  instead  of  thanking  him  he  gave  him 
a  black  look  and  sauntered  off.  But  he  had  learned 
what  the  explosive  was;  before  he  went  away  he 
had  seen  it  used  in  half-a-dozen  ways  and  had  a 
visual  demonstration  of  the  necessity  for  caution  in 
its  handling.  One  of  the  young  and  cocky  en- 
gineers, whom  he  so  hated,  dropped  by  dread  mis- 
chance a  heavy  hammer  on  a  stick  of  it,  and  the 
resulting  turmoil  left  him  lying  torn  and  mangled 
on  the  rocks. 

Lorey  felt  small  sympathy  for  the  man's  suffer- 
ing, although  he  never  had  seen  any  human  being 
mutilated  thus  before.  Many  a  man  he  had  seen 
lying  with  a  clean  hole  through  his  forehead,  the 
neat  work  of  a  definitely  aimed  bullet;  assassination 
and  the  spectacles  it  carried  with  it  could  not  worry 
him :  his  childhood  and  young  manhood  had  been 
passed  where  "killings"  were  too  frequent;  the 

129 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


man,  like  all  the  others  there  at  work,  was  his 
enemy,  and  he  sorrowed  for  him  not  at  all ;  but  this 
tearing,  mangling  laceration  of  human  flesh  and 
bone  was  horrifying  to  him. 

Later,  though,  a  certain  comfort  came  to  him 
from  it.  The  whole  scene  had  impressed  him  and 
depressed  him.  He  remembered  what  Madge 
Brierly  had  said  about  the  engineers  with  their  blue 
paper  plans  and  their  ability  to  read  from  them  and 
work  by  them.  He  saw  them  at  their  work,  and 
the  spectacle  made  him  feel  inferior,  which  had 
never  happened  in  his  free,  untrammeled  life  of 
mountain  independence  before.  There  were  a 
dozen  men  about  the  work  of  the  same  type  as 
Layson's,  and  their  calm  cocksureness  as  they  di- 
rected all  these  mysteries  amazed  him,  overwhelmed 
him,  made  him  feel  a  sense  of  littleness  and  unim- 
portance which  was  maddening.  Why  should  they 
know  all  these  things  when  he,  Joe  Lorey,  who  had 
lived  a  decent  life  according  to  his  lights,  had  la- 
bored with  his  muscles  as  theirs  could  not  labor  if 
they  tried  to  force  them  to,  had  lived  upon  rough 
fare  and  in  rough  place's  while  they  had  had  such 
"fancinesses"  as  he  saw  spread  before  them  at  their 
mess-tent  dinner  (and  crude  fare  enough  it  seemed 
to  them,  no  doubt)  knew  none  of  them?  He  could 
see  no  justice  in  such  matters  and  resented  them 
with  bitter  heart.  If  their  own  infernal  powder  had 
killed  one  of  them  he  would  not  mourn.  He  tried 
to  look  back  at  the  accident  with  satisfaction. 

130 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Had  he  gone  down  to  that  crude  construction 
camp  without  the  jealousy  of  Layson  in  his  heart, 
he  might,  possibly,  have  merely  gazed  in  wonder 
at  the  cleverness  of  all  this  work,  despite  his  moun- 
taineer's resentment  of  the  coming  of  the  inter- 
lopers; but,  with  that  resentment  in  his  heart  to 
nag  and  worry  him,  he  achieved,  before  the  day  was 
over,  a  real  hatred  of  the  class  and  of  each  individ- 
ual in  it.  Layson  had  come  up  there  to  his  country 
to  rob  him  of  the  girl  he  loved;  now  these  men 
were  coming  with  their  railroad  to  change  the 
aspect  of  the  land  he  had  been  born  to  and  grown 
up  in,  making  it  a  strange  place,  unfamiliar,  unwel- 
coming and  crowded.  He  hated  every  one  of  them, 
he  hated  the  new  railroad  they  were  building,  he 
hated  their  new-fangled  and  mysterious  machinery 
which  puzzled  him  with  intricate  devices  and  ap- 
palled him  with  its  power  of  fire  and  steam. 

By  the  time  the  afternoon  was  two  hours  old  he 
was  in  a  state  of  sullen  fury,  silent,  morose,  mis- 
erable on  the  stump  which  he  had  chosen  as  his 
vantage  point  for  observation.  More  than  once 
an  engineer  looked  at  him  with  plain  admiration 
of  his  mammoth  stature  in  his  eyes;  many  a  town- 
girl,  seeing  him,  like  a  statue  of  The  Pioneer  upon 
a  fitting  pedestal,  made  furtive  eyes  at  him,  for  he 
was  handsome  and  attractive  in  his  rough  en- 
semble; but  he  paid  no  heed  to  any  of  them.  He 
was  giving  his  mind  over  to  consideration  of  his 
grievance  against  these  men  who  came,  with  steam 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


and  pick  and  shovel,  dynamite  and  railroad  iron,  in- 
vading his  domain. 

He  thought  about  his  secret  still,  hidden  in  its 
mountain  fastness,  and  realized  that  this  new 
stage  of  settlement's  inexorable  march  meant  danger 
to  it;  he  thought  about  the  game  which  roamed 
the  hills  and  realized  that  with  the  coming  of  the 
crowd  it  would  soon  scatter,  never  to  return;  he 
thought  about  the  girl  up  there,  his  companion  in 
adversity,  his  fellow  sufferer  from  mutual  wrong, 
the  one  thing  which  he  had  had  to  love,  the  shining 
prize  which  it  had  been  his  sole  ambition  to  possess 
for  life;  he  thought  of  her  and  then  about  the  man, 
who  (product  of  the  same  advantages  which  made 
these  men  before  him  clever  with  their  blue-prints 
and  their  puffling  monsters)  had  come  there  search- 
ing profit  from  the  land  which  he  had  never  loved 
or  lived  on,  and,  seeing  Madge,  had,  Joe  thoroughly 
believed,  exerted  every  wile  of  a  superior  experi- 
ence to  win  her  from  him  by  fair  means  or  foul. 
He  thought  of  them  and  hated  all  of  them! 

He  was  a  most  unhappy  mountaineer  who  sat 
there  on  the  stump,  impassive  and  morose  as  the 
sun  progressed  upon  its  journey  toward  the  west- 
ern horizon.  All  the  organized  activity  in  the  scene 
about  him  filled  him  with  resentment  and  despair. 
In  the  hills  he  ever  felt  his  strength:  they  had 
presented  in  his  whole  lifetime  few  problems  which 
he  could  not  cope  with,  conquer;  but  here  in  that 
construction  camp  he  felt  weak,  incompetent,  saw 

132 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


full  many  a  puzzling  matter  which  he  could  not  un- 
derstand. He  watched  the  scene  with  bitter  but 
with  almost  hopeless  eyes.  These  new  forces  work- 
ing here  at  railroad  building,  working  in  the  hills 
to  rob  him  of  the  girl  he  loved,  seemed  pitilessly 
strong  and  terribly  mysterious.  He  never  had  felt 
helpless  in  all  his  life,  before.  It  made  him  grind 
his  teeth  with  rage. 

But,  though  it  angered  him,  the  tense  activity  of 
the  construction  camp  was  fascinating,  too.  Espe- 
cially was  his  attention  held  spell-bound  by  the 
ruthless  work  of  the  advancing  blasting  gangs. 
What  power  lay  hidden  in  those  tiny  sticks  of  dyna- 
mite! How  lightly  one  of  them  had  tossed  that 
poor  unfortunate  in  air  and  left  him  lying  man- 
gled, broken,  helpless  on  the  ground  when  it  had 
spent  its  fury !  What  a  weapon  one  of  them  would 
make,  upon  occasion! 

This  thought  grew  rapidly  in  his  depressed  and 
agitated  mind.  What  a  weapon,  what  a  weapon! 
Presently  the  blasting  gangs  and  what  they  did 
absorbed  his  whole  attention.  He  no  longer  paid 
the  slightest  heed  to  the  puffing  locomotives,  busy 
with  their  dump-cars,  to  the  mysterious  steam- 
shovel,  to  the  hand  cars  with  their  pumping,  flying 
passengers.  The  dynamite  was  greater  than  the 
greatest  of  them.  One  stick  of  it,  if  properly  ap- 
plied, would  blow  a  locomotive  into  junk,  would 
tear  a  dump-car,  with  its  massive  iron-work  and 
grinding  wheels,  apart  and  leave  mere  splinters ! 

133 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


His  thoughts  roamed  back  to  his  home  mountains 
and  .pondered  on  the  probable  effect  of  this  in- 
cursion on  his  personal  affairs.  Not  satisfied  with 
tearing  up  the  placid  valley,  these  foreigners  would, 
presently,  invade  the  very  mountains  in  their  turn. 
He  saw  the  doom  of  that  small,  hidden  still  which 
had  been  his  father's  secret,  years  ago,  was  now  his 
secret  from  the  prying  eyes  of  law  and  progress. 
That  the  "revenuers,"  soon  or  late,  would  get  it, 
now  that  their  allies  were  building  steel  highways 
to  swarm  on,  was  inevitable.  His  heart  beat  fast 
with  a  new  anger,  anticipatory  of  their  coming  to 
his  fastness. 

Lying  not  six  feet  from  him  as  he  sat  there 
thinking  bitterly  of  all  these  things,  the  foreman 
of  the  blasting  gang  had  gingerly  deposited  a  dozen 
sticks  of  dynamite  upon  a  soft  cushion  of  grey 
blankets.  Joe  looked  at  them  as  they  lay  there,  in- 
nocent and  unimpressive.  If  he  had  some  of  them 
in  the  hills  and  the  revenuers  came  to  raid  his 


The  thought  sprang  into  being  in  his  mind  with 
lightning  quickness  and  grew  there  with  mushroom 
growth.  Never  in  his  life  had  Lorey  stolen  any- 
thing, although  the  government  would  have  classed 
him  as  a  criminal  because  he  owned  that  hidden 
still.  His  standards,  in  some  things,  were  differ- 
ent from  yours  and  mine,  but  he  had  never  stolen 
anything  and  scorned  as  low  beyond  the  power  of 
words  to  tell  a  man  who  would.  But  now  tempta- 

134 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


tion  came  to  him.  He  wanted  some  of  that  explo- 
sive. Should  he  buy  it,  its  purchase  by  a  moun- 
taineer would  certainly  attract  attention  and  might 
thus  precipitate  the  very  thing  he  wished  to  ward 
away — a  watch  of  him,  and,  through  that  espion- 
age, discovery  of  his  secret  place  among  the  hills. 
And  were  not  the  railroad  and  the  men  who  owned 
it  robbing  him  by  their  progression  into  his  own 
country?  They  were  robbing  him  of  peace  and 
quiet,  of  the  possibility  of  living  on  the  life  he  had 
been  born  to  and  had  learned  to  love !  One  of  the 
class  which  fostered  him  was  robbing  him,  he  feared 
with  a  great  fear,  of  the  sweet  girl  whom  he  loved 
better  than  he  loved  his  life.  Surely  it  would  be 
no  sin,  no  act  of  real  dishonesty  for  him  to  slip 
down  from  his  stump  when  none  was  looking  and 
secure  a  stick  or  two  of  the  explosive! 

Speciously  he  argued  this  out  in  his  mind  and 
reached  the  wrong  conclusion  which  he  wished  to 
reach. 

If  he  could  but  get  one  of  those  sticks  of  dyna- 
mite! When  progress  came,  as,  now,  he  felt  con- 
vinced it  would,  to  drive  him  from  his  mountains 
and  the  still  which  made  life  possible  to  him,  he 
could  meet  it,  at  the  start,  with  one  of  its  own 
weapons.  That,  even  though  he  had  a  hundred 
such,  he  could  fight  the  fight  successfully,  could,  in 
the  end,  find  triumph,  he  did  not  for  an  instant 
think.  The  might  of  the  encroaching  army  had 
impressed  him,  and  he  knew  that,  soon  or  late,  he 

135 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


would  be  forced  to  yield  to  it :  but  he  coveted  those 
sticks  of  dynamite.  One  of  them  would  give  him 
some  slight  power,  at  least.  He  acknowledged  to 
himself  that  he  would  steal  one  if  he  got  the  chance, 
despite  his  innate  hatred  of  all  pilferers.  Such 
theft  would  merely  be  the  taking  of  an  unimportant 
tribute  from  the  power  which  would,  eventually, 
claim  much,  indeed,  from  him. 

From  the  distance  came  the  screaming  whistle  of 
a  locomotive  pulling  in  along  the  newly  built  road- 
way to  eastward.  It  was  followed  by  a  flurry  of 
excitement  among  all  the  men  at  work  around  about 
him. 

"There  comes  the  mail,"  he  heard  one  handsome 
young  chap  shout. 

He  wore  a  suit  like  that  which  Joe  had  learned 
to  hate  because  Frank  Layson  wore  it. 

This  youth  started  running  down  the  track, 
bright-eyed,  expectant,  and  a  dozen  others  ran  to 
follow  him,  leaving  blue-prints,  their  surveyors'  in- 
struments and  other  tokens  of  their  mysterious 
might  of  education,  lying  unheeded  on  the  ground 
behind  them.  There  was  much  excitement.  Even 
the  rough  laborers  stopped  delving  at  their  tasks 
for  a  few  minutes,  to  straighten  from  their  work 
and  stand,  with  curious  eyes  agaze  down-track. 

In  the  distance  Joe  saw  smoke  arise  above  the 
tops  of  the  invaded  forest-trees.  Then  he  heard 
the  growing  clangor  of  a  locomotive's  bell,  then 
other  whistling  and  the  approaching  rumble  of  steel 

136 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


wheels  upon  steel  rails,  the  groan  of  brake  shoes 
gripping,  the  rattle  of  contracted  couplings,  the  im- 
pact of  car-bumpers. 

The  excitement  grew  among  the  working  gangs. 
Even  the  laborers  left  their  tasks  and  started  down 
the  rough  surface  of  the  new  embankment  toward 
the  place,  a  quarter-of-a-mile  away,  where  the  train 
would  stop  at  the  end  of  the  crude  ballasting. 

Lorey  sat  there  on  his  stump,  apparently  impas- 
sive, watching  all  this  flurry  with  resentful,  discon- 
tented eyes.  He  himself  was  infinitely  curious 
about  the  coming  train ;  but  he  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  go  to  see  it.  He  had  never  seen  a  railway 
train,  but  it  somehow  seemed  to  him  that  if  he 
hurried  with  the  rest  to  meet  this  one  it  would 
mean  a  certain  sacrifice  of  dignity  in  the  face  of  the 
invading  conqueror.  He  sat  there,  grimly  wonder- 
ing what  it  might  be  like,  what  the  people  whom 
it  brought  were  like,  until,  suddenly,  he  discovered 
that  he  was  alone.  The  last  workman  yielding  to 
temptation,  free  from  supervision  for  the  moment, 
had  run  down  the  bank  to  meet  the  train,  get  mail, 
see  who  had  come.  Lying  not  a  dozen  feet  away 
from  Joe  on  their  grey  blanket  were  the  sticks  of 
dynamite. 

Lithe,  quick  and  silent  as  one  of  the  mountain 
wild-cats  he  had  so  often  trailed  through  his  do- 
main, he  slipped  down  from  his  stump,  caught  up 
a  stick  of  the  explosive,  tucked  it  carefully  into  his 


137 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


game-bag,  took  his  place  again  upon  the  stump,  im- 
passive, calm,  apparently  quite  unexcited. 

When  the  men  came  trooping  back,  opening  let- 
ters, tearing  wrappers  from  their  newspapers,  gos- 
sipping,  he  still  sat  on  the  stump  as  they  had  left 
him.  Not  one  of  them  suspected  that  he  once  had 
left  it. 

"Bright  and  lively  as  a  cigar-store  Indian,"  he 
heard  one  care- free  youth  exclaim  as  he  went  by 
him. 

He  did  not  know  what  the  man  meant;  he  had 
never  seen  a  cigar-store  Indian;  but  he  knew  a  jibe 
was  meant.  It  did  not  anger  him,  as  it  would  have 
done,  a  few  moments  earlier.  Now  he  had  ex- 
acted his  small  tribute.  They  could  stare  at  him 
and  jibe,  if  they  were  so  inclined.  Hidden  care- 
fully there  in  his  game-bag  was  one  of  their  own 
weapons  for  their  fight  against  the  wilderness, 
which,  in  course  of  time,  might  be  a  weapon  of 
the  wilderness  in  fighting  against  some  of  them. 

Presently  he  climbed  down  from  the  stump  and 
strolled  back  along  the  raw  embankment  toward 
the  little  group  still  standing  near  the  train  which 
had  arrived. 


138 


CHAPTER  VII 

The  young  moonshiner  stiffened  ins'tantly  as  he 
neared  the  group  of  newly  arrived  travellers,  for 
the  first  word  he  heard  from  them  was  the  name 
of  him  whom,  among  all  foreigners,  he  hated  with 
most  bitterness.  An  old  darky,  plainly  the  servant 
of  the  party,  and  such  a  darky  as  the  mountain 
country  had  never  seen  before,  was  inquiring  of  a 
bystander  where  he  could  find  "Marse"  Frank  Lay- 
son. 

The  man  of  whom  he  asked  the  question  had  not 
the  least  idea,  nor  had  anyone  about  the  railroad 
working.  Most  of  the  men  had  never  heard  of 
Layson,  and  the  few  who  had  become  acquainted 
with  him  through  chance  meetings  since  he  had  been 
stopping  in  his  cabin  in  the  mountains,  knew  most 
indefinitely  where  the  place  was  located.  Lorey 
could  have  quickly  given  the  information,  but  had 
no  thought  of  doing  so.  He  stood,  instead,  staring 
at  the  party  with  wondering  but  not  good-natured 
eyes,  and  said  no  word.  He  certainly  was  not  the 
one  to  do  a  favor  to  his  rival  or  his  rival's  friends. 

The  group  of  strangers  were  thrown  into  con- 

139 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


fusion  by  the  difficulty  of  getting  news  of  him 
they  sought,  and,  while  they  discussed  the  matter, 
Lorey  had  a  chance  to  study  them.  He  stood  upon 
the  rough  plank  platform,  leaning  on  his  rifle,  with 
the  game-bag  and  its  burden  of  purloined  explosive 
hanging  slouchily  beneath  one  arm,  his  coon-skin 
cap  down  well  upon  his  eyes,  those  eyes,  half  closed, 
gazing  at  the  newcomers  with  all  the  curiosity 
which  they  would  have  shown  at  sight  of  savages 
from  some  far  foreign  shore. 

He  was  not  the  only  one  about  the  temporary 
railroad  station  who  eyed  the  group  with  curiosity 
and  interest.  Two  of  the  travellers  were  ladies 
from  the  blue-grass  and  scarcely  one  of  all  the  na- 
tives lingering  about  the  workings  had  ever  seen 
a  lady  from  the  blue-grass,  while,  to  the  young  sur- 
veyors and  the  group  of  civil  engineers  who  had, 
for  months,  been  exiled  by  their  work  among  the 
mountains  from  all  association  with  such  lovely 
creatures,  it  was  a  joy  to  stand  apart  and  covertly 
gaze  at  them.  Many  a  young  fellow,  months  away 
from  home,  who  had  grasped  the  newspapers  and 
letters  which  had  come  in  with  the  other  mail  with 
eager  ringers,  anxious  to  devour  their  contents,  had, 
after  the  two  ladies  had  descended  from  the  train, 
almost  forgotten  his  anxiety  to  get  the  news  from 
home,  and  stood  there,  now,  with  opened  letters  in 
his  hands,  unread. 

The  ladies  were  very  worthy  of  attention,  too. 
Miss  Alathea  Layson,  the  elder  of  the  two,  was 

140 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


slight,  beautifully  groomed  despite  the  long  and 
dirty  trip  on  rough  cars  over  the  crude  road-bed  of 
a  newly  graded  railway.  A  woman  whose  thirtieth 
birthday  had  been  left  behind  some  years  before, 
she  still  had  all  the  brightness  and  vivacity  of  the 
twenties  in  her  carriage  and  her  manner.  Her 
voice,  as  it  drifted  to  the  young  moonshiner,  was  a 
new  experience  to  him — soft,  well  modulated,  cul- 
tivated, it  was  of  a  sort  which  he  had  never  heard 
before,  and,  while  it  seemed  to  him  affected,  never- 
theless thrilled  him  with  an  unacknowledged  ad- 
miration. 

It  was  she  who  showed  the  greatest  disappoint- 
ment about  the  general  ignorance  concerning  Lay- 
son's  whereabouts,  and  that  voice  made  instantane- 
ous and  irresistible  appeal  to  the  older  men  among 
the  party  of  engineers  and  surveyors,  who,  finding 
an  excuse  in  her  discomfiture,  flocked  about  her, 
hats  off,  backs  bent  in  humble  bows,  proffering  as- 
sistance, three  deep  in  the  circle. 

The  other  lady  traveller,  whom  Miss  Alathea 
called  Miss  Barbara,  more  especially  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  younger  men,  and,  as  they  stood 
aloof  to  gaze  at  her,  held  such  mountain  dwellers 
as  were  near,  paralyzed  with  wonder  and  admira- 
tion. Nothing  so  brilliantly  beautiful  as  she  in 
form,  carriage,  face,  coloring  or  dress  had  ever 
been  seen  there  in  the  little  valley. 

She  was  a  florid  girl  of  twenty,  or,  perhaps,  of 
twenty-one  or  two.  Her  eyes  were  the  obtrusive 

141 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


feature  of  her  face,  and  she  used  them  with  a  free- 
dom which  held  callow  youth  spell-bound.  Her 
gown  was  more  pretentious  than  that  of  her  more 
elderly  companion.  This,  of  course,  was  justified 
by  the  difference  between  their  ages;  but  there 
seemed  to  be,  beyond  this,  a  flaunting  gayety  about 
it  and  her  manner  which  were  not,  in  the  eyes  of 
the  older  and  wiser  men  among  the  group  who 
watched,  justified  by  anything.  It  would  have  been 
a  hard  thing  for  the  most  critical  of  them  to  have 
definitely  mentioned  just  what  forced  this  strong 
impression  on  their  minds,  but  it  was  forced  upon 
them  very  quickly.  One  of  them,  a  cute  uad  keen 
observer  as  he  was,  of  many  years  experience,  de- 
cided the  moot  point,  though,  and  whispered  his 
decision  to  a  grizzled  man  (the  engineer  in  charge 
of  the  whole  enterprise  upon  that  section  of  con- 
struction) who  stood  next  him. 

"The  elder  one  is  of  the  old-time  Southern  aris- 
tocracy," he  said.  "The  younger  one  is  one  of  the 
new-comers — her  father  has  made  money  and  she 
is  breaking  in  by  means  of  it." 

His  companion  nodded,  realizing  that  the  guess 
was  shrewd  and  justified,  even  if  it  might,  conceiv- 
ably, be  inaccurate. 

"She  certainly  is  very  striking,"  he  said,  nod- 
ding, "but  the  elder  one  is  the  aristocrat." 

The  other  member  of  the  party  was  a  big  man, 
nearing  fifty,  with  a  broad  face  on  which  geniality 
was  written  in  its  every  line,  wearing  the  wide- 

142 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


brimmed  Southern  hat,  typical  long  frock-coat  with 
flaring  skirts,  black  trousers,  somewhat  pegged,  and 
boots  of  an  immaculate  brilliance. 

His  voice  was  loud,  hearty  and  attractive,  as  he 
made  inquiries,  here  and  there,  about  the  young 
man  whom  they  had  hoped  to  find  in  waiting  for 
them  at  the  station,  although  they  had  arrived,  ow- 
ing to  the  exigencies  of  travel  by  a  new  road,  not 
yet  officially  opened  to  traffic,  a  day  before  they  had 
expected  to. 

"I  suh,"  said  this  gentleman,  "am  Gunnel  Doo- 
little — Gunnel  Sandusky  Doolittle,  and  am  looking 
for  this  lady's  nephew,  Mr.  Lay  son,  suh.  If  you 
can  tell  me  where  the  youngster  is  likely  to  be  run- 
nin',  now,  you  will  put  me  under  obligations,  suh." 

None,  however,  knew  just  how  Layson  could  be 
reached.  Most  of  them  knew  him  or  had  heard  of 
him,  but  they  were  not  certain  just  where  his  camp 
in  the  mountains  was  located. 

"I  regret,  Miss  'Lethe,"  said  the  Colonel,  turning 
to  the  disappointed  lady  at  his  side,  after  having 
completed  his  inquiries,  "that  there  is  no  good  hotel 
heah.  If  there  were  a  good  hotel  heah,  I  would 
take  you  to  it,  ma'am,  and  make  you  comfortable. 
Then,  ma'am,  I  would  search  this  country  and  I'd 
find  him  in  short  order.  He  probably  did  not  re- 
ceive my  letter  saying  that  we  would  arrive  to-day 
and  not  to-morrow." 

One  of  the  engineers  proffered  to  the  ladies  the 
use  of  his  own  canvas  quarters  till  some  course  of 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


action  should  have  been  decided  on,  an  offer  which 
was  gratefully  accepted. 

Soon  afterward  inquiries  by  the  Colonel  brought 
out  definite  information  as  to  the  exact  location 
of  Frank's  camp.  A  railway  teamster,  also,  it  ap- 
peared, was  starting  in  that  direction  after  ties  and 
offered  to  transport  a  messenger  as  far  as  he  was 
going,  directing  him,  then,  so  that  he  could  not  lose 
his  way.  Old  Neb,  the  darky,  thereupon,  was 
started  on  the  search. 

He  was  a  different  sort  of  negro  from  any  which 
the  mountain  folk  had  ever  seen,  and  wore  more 
airs  than  his  "white  folks."  Dressed  in  a  black 
frock-coat  as  ornate  as  the  Colonel's,  although  its 
bagging  shoulders  showed  that  it  had  been  a  gift 
and  not  made  for  him,  his  hat  was  a  silk  tile,  a  bit 
too  large,  and  in  one  hand  was  a  gold-headed  cane 
on  which  he  leaned  as  his  old  legs  limped  under 
him.  Among  the  mountaineers  about  he  was  an 
object  of  the  keenest  curiosity,  although  down  in 
the  blue-grass,  where  old  family  negroes  frequently 
were  let  to  grow  into  a  childish  dignity  of  manner 
after  years  of  faithful  service  and  were  not  disturbed 
in  their  ideas  of  their  own  importance,  he  would 
have  been  regarded  as  merely  an  amusing  infant  of 
great  age,  reaping  a  reward  for  by-gone  merits  in 
the  careful  consideration  and  indulgence  now  ex- 
tended to  him.  His  inordinate  vanity  of  his  per- 
sonal appearance  and  his  dignity  might  have  given 
rise  to  smiles,  down  there;  here  there  were  those 

144 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


upon  the  platform  who  laughed  loudly  as  he  walked 
away,  boasting  vaingloriously,  although  he  evi- 
dently feared  the  trip  with  the  rough  teamster,  that 
he  would  find  "young  Marse  Frank"  in  a  jiffy  and 
have  him  there  in  no  time. 

It  was  while  the  aged  negro  was  climbing  some- 
what difficultly  to  the  side  of  the  good-natured  rail- 
road teamster  who  had  promised  to  give  him  a  lift 
upon  his  way  and  then  supply  directions  for  his 
further  progress,  that  Joe  Lorey,  who  had  been  an 
interested  spectator  of  the  affair,  contemptuous, 
amused  by  the  old  darky,  saw,  coming  through  the 
crowd  behind  him  and  well  beyond  the  range  of  the 
newly  arrived  strangers,  the  roughly  dressed,  mys- 
terious old  man  whom  he  had  seen,  once  or  twice, 
up  in  the  mountains,  whom  Madge  had  seen,  tap- 
ping with  his  little  hammer  at  the  rocks.  Lorey 
looked  toward  him  with  a  face  which  scowled  in- 
stinctively. He  disliked  the  man,  as  he  disliked  all 
foreigners  who  dared  invasion  of  his  wilderness;  he 
would  have  feared  him,  too,  had  he  known  that  it 
had  really  been  him  and  not  young  Layson  and 
Madge  Brierly  who  had  made  the  noise  there  in  the 
thicket  which  had  disturbed  him,  that  day,  when, 
armed  to  meet  a  raid  of  revenuers,  he  had  rushed 
out  from  his  still  to  find  the  girl  and  the  young 
blue-grass  gentleman  in  a  close  company  which 
worried  him  almost  as  much  as  the  appearance  of 
the  officers,  in  fact,  could  have  done. 

He  was  a  "foreigner,"  this  old  man  with  the 

145 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


manner  of  the  mountains,  and,  sometimes,  their 
speech,  for  he  wore  blue-grass  clothes;  therefore 
he  was  one  to  be  classed  with  the  others  in  his  bit- 
ter hatred.  He  was  standing  almost  in  his  path, 
and,  by  stepping  to  one  side,  could  have  saved  him 
a  small  detour  round  a  pile  of  boxed  supplies;  but 
he  did  not  move  an  inch,  stiffening,  instead,  de- 
lighted at  obstructing  him. 

The  old  man,  as  he  went  around,  looked  sharply 
at  him,  arid  then  smiled,  almost  as  if  he  recognized 
him  and  could  read  his  thoughts;  almost  as  if  he 
realized  the  man's  instinctive  hate;  almost  as  if  he 
felt  a  certainty,  deep  in  his  soul,  that  so  great  was 
the  disaster  hovering  above  the  mountaineer  that 
it  would  be  scarcely  worth  his  own  while,  now,  even 
to  think  resentfully  of  this  small  insult. 

A  moment  later,  though,  and  the  expression  of 
his  face  had  changed  completely.  The  first  glimpse 
of  the  new  come  party  standing,  now,  deep  in  dis- 
cussion of  the  railway  work,  before  the  engineer's 
white,  hospitable  tent,  made  him  start  back  in 
amazement. 

For  an  instant  he  stood  wavering,  as  if  he  were 
considering  the  plan  of  trying  to  depart  without 
approaching  them  or  being  seen  by  them,  but  then 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  advanced,  trying  to 
show  upon  his  face  surprised  good-nature. 

"Wall,  Colonel  Doolittle !"  he  cried.  "And  you, 
Miss  Layson,  and — why,  there's  Barbara!" 


146 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Father!"  said  the  girl,  in  absolute  amazement, 
hurrying  toward  him. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Holton!"  said  Miss  'Lethe,  bowing  to 
him  as  the  Colonel,  plainly  not  too  greatly  pleased 
by  the  necessity  for  doing  so,  advanced  toward  him 
with  extended  hand. 

"What  brings  you  all  up  here?"  asked  Holton, 
after  the  greetings  had  been  said. 

"We  came  up  to  see  Frank  and  the  beauties  of 
his  long-forgotten  land,"  Miss  'Lethe  answered, 
in  her  softly  charming  voice.  "He  has  property  up 
here,  you  know,  which  has  been  for  years  a  fam- 
ily possession,  but  which  has  been  considered  value- 
less, or  almost  so.  When  he  learned  that  this  new 
railway  was  to  pass  quite  close  to  it,  he  decided 
to  investigate  it  carefully  and  see  just  what  it  really 
amounted  to." 

Holton  smiled  a  little  wryly  as  she  completed  her 
explanation.  "He's  stayed  here,  studyin'  it,  a  long 
time,  ain't  he?" 

"Yes,"  Miss  Alathea  answered.  "When  he  once 
reached  here  he  seemed  to  find  new  beauties  in  the 
country  every  day.  He  wrote  us  the  most  glowing 
letters  of  it,  and  these  letters  and — and — other 
things,  decided  me  to  come  and  see  him  and  the 
property  he  is  so  fond  of.  The  Colonel  was  polite 
enough  to  volunteer  as  escort,  your  daughter  to 
come  as  a  companion. 

Holton  winked  mysteriously  at  Colonel  Doolit- 
tle.  "You  come  at  the  right  time,"  said  he.  "I'll 

147 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


have  some  things  to  tell  you  of  this  country  and 
just  what  the  railroad's  going  to  do  for  it  if  you 
should  care  to  listen." 

The  Colonel's  eyes,  plainly  those  of  one  who  read 
the  tale  of  character  upon  the  faces  of  the  people 
whom  he  met,  looked  at  him  with  no  great  favor, 
but  he  smiled.  "We've  already  learned  some  things 
which  have  astonished  us,"  he  said.  Then,  though, 
despite  the  fact  that  his  remark  had  greatly  aroused 
Helton's  curiosity,  evidently,  he  changed  the  sub- 
ject somewhat  abruptly,  and  turned  grandiosely  to 
Miss  'Lethe. 

"May  I  offuh  you  my  ahm,  ma'am,  for  a  little 
stroll  about  heah  ?"  he  inquired.  "The  greatest  dis- 
advantage which  I  see  about  this  country  is  the  lack 
of  level  places  big  enough  to  put  a  race-track  in, 
ma'am.  So  far  as  I  can  see  from  lookin'  round  me, 
casual  like,  you  couldn't  run  a  quahtuh,  heah,  with- 
out eitheh  goin'  up  a  hill  or  comin'  down  one." 

"Isn't  it  rough!'  said  Barbara,  with  a  gesture  of 
aversion  which  seemed  a  bit  affected. 

Holton  looked  at  her  with  what  was  plainly  ad- 
miration. It  was  clear  enough  that,  in  a  way,  he 
was  fond  of  his  showy  daughter.  He  ran  his  eye 
with  satisfaction  over  her  costume,  from  head  to 
foot,  and  nodded. 

"You  ain't  never  seen  much  of  rough  life,  now 
have  you,  Barbara  ?"  He  turned,  then,  to  Miss  Al- 
athea.  "These  young  folks,  raised  the  way  we  raise 
'em,  nowadays,  get  thinkin'  that  the  whole  world 

148 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


has  been  smoothed  out  for  their  treadin' — an'  they 
ain't  far  wrong.  We  do  smooth  out  the  world  for 
'em.  Now,  there's  your  nephew,  Frank;  he " 

"Oh,  he  likes  it,  here,  as  I  have  said,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"But  it  is  so — uncouth,"  said  Barbara,  plainly  for 
the  benefit  of  one  or  two  admiring  youths  from  the 
surveying  party,  who  were  standing  near.  "And 
some  of  the  people  look  so  absolutely  vicious — 
some  of  the  natives,  I  mean,  of  course,  you  know. 
Now  look  at  that  young  fellow,  over  there !" 

The  girl  had  nodded  toward  Joe  Lorey,  who  was 
standing  not  far  off,  observing  them  with  an  un- 
wavering and  disapproving,  almost  definitely  hos- 
tile stare. 

"He  looks,"  the  girl  went  on,  "as  if  he  hated  us 
and  would  be  glad  to  do  us  harm.  So  violent !" 

"He's  from  up  the  mountains,"  one  of  the  young 
engineers  said,  glancing  toward  him.  "It's  funny 
how  those  mountain  people  all  hate  us.  You  see, 
they  say,  the  hills  around  about  here  are  all  full  of 
moonshiners  and  they  believe  the  coming  of  the 
railroad  will  bring  with  it  law  and  order  and  that 
when  that  comes,  of  course,  their  living  will  be 
gone." 

"Moonshiners?"  said  Barbara.  "Pray,  what  are 
moonshiners  ?" 

Her  father  grimly  smiled  again.  He  knew  that 
she  knew  quite  as  well  what  moonshiners  were  as 


149 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


any  person  in  the  group,  but  her  affected  ignorance 
of  rough  things  and  rough  men  amused  him. 

"Distillers  of  corn  whisky  who  refuse  to  pay 
their  taxes  to  the  government,"  the  youth  replied. 
"The  revenue  officials  have  had  dreadful  times  with 
them,  here  in  the  Cumberland,  for  years.  Some- 
times they  have  really  bloody  battles  with  them, 
when  they  try  to  make  a  raid." 

"How  terrible!"  said  Barbara,  and  shuddered 
carefully.  She  looked  again  at  Lorey,  who,  con- 
scious that  he  was  the  subject  of  their  conversation 
and  resentful  of  it,  stared  back  boldly  and  defi- 
antly. "And  do  you  think  that  he — that  very  young 
man  there — can  possibly  have  ever  actually  killed 
a  man?" 

The  engineer  laughed  heartily.  "That  he  may 
possibly  have  killed  a  man,"  said  he,  "there  is  no 
doubt.  I  don't  know  that  he  has,  however,  and 
it  is  most  improbable.  I  don't  even  know  that 
he's  a  moonshiner." 

Among  the  others  who  had  left  the  train,  which, 
now,  had  been  switched  off  to  a  crude  side-track, 
the  cars  left  there  and  the  locomotive  started  at 
the  handling  of  dirt-dump-cars,  were  two  tall,  sun- 
burned strangers,  whom  Miss  Alathea,  who  had 
noted  them  as  she  did  everyone,  had  classed  as  en- 
gineers or  surveyors,  but  who  had  not,  when  they 
had  arrived,  mingled  with  the  other  men  employed 
on  the  construction  of  the  railroad.  While  the 
young  man  and  Barbara  were  talking  about  moon- 

150 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


shiners,  one  of  them  had  drifted  near  and  he  gave 
them  a  keen  glance  at  the  first  mention  of  the 
word.  Now  he  turned,  but  turned  most  casually,  to 
follow  with  his  own,  their  glances  at  Joe  Lorey. 
Then  he  sauntered  off,  and,  as  he  passed  Holton, 
seemed  to  exchange  meaning  glances  with  him. 

Soon  afterward  Lorey  turned  away.  The  day 
was  getting  on  toward  noon.  The  long  tramp  back 
to  his  lonely  cabin  in  the  mountains  would  consume 
some  hours.  The  sight  of  all  these  strangers,  all 
this  work  on  the  new  railroad  worried  him,  made 
him  unhappy,  added  to  and  multiplied  the  apprehen- 
sion which  for  weeks  had  filled  his  heart  about 
Madge  Brierly  and  young  Layson.  He  battled  with 
a  mixture  of  emotions.  There  was  no  ounce  of 
cowardice,  in  Joe.  Never  had  he  met  a  situation  in 
his  life  before  which  he  had  feared  or  which  had 
proved  too  strong  for  him.  All  his  battles,  so  far, 
and  they  had  been  many  and  been  various,  as  was 
inevitable  from  the  nature  of  his  secret  calling,  had 
resulted  in  full  victories  for  his  mighty  strength 
of  body  or  his  quick  foot,  certain  hand,  keen  knowl- 
edge of  the  mountains  and  the  woods  resource  and 
wit  that  went  with  these ;  but  now  things  seemed  to 
baffle  him.  His  soul  was  struggling  against  ac- 
knowledgment of  it,  while  his  mind  continually  told 
him  it  was  true.  Everything  seemed,  now,  to  be 
against  him. 

He  knew,  but  would  not  admit,  even  to  himself, 
that  the  march  of  progress  must  inevitably  drive 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


out  of  existence  the  still  hidden  in  his  cave  and 
make  the  marketing  of  its  illicit  product  doubly 
hazardous,  nay,  quite  impossible.  He  knew  that 
he  must  give  it  up ;  he  realized  that  real  good  sense 
would  send  him  home,  that  day,  to  bury  the  last 
trace  of  it  in  some  spot  where  it  never  could  be 
found  again.  But  his  stubborn  soul  revolted  at  the 
thought  of  being  beaten,  finally,  by  this  civiliza- 
tion which  he  hated;  he  would  not  admit,  even  in 
his  mind,  that  it  had  bested  him,  or  could  ever  best 
him.  He  ground  his  teeth  and  pressed  his  elbow 
down  against  the  stock  of  his  long  rifle  with  a 
force  which  ground  the  gun  into  his  side  until  it 
hurt  him.  He  would  never  give  up,  never!  Let 
them  try  to  get  him  if  they  could,  these  lowlanders! 
He  would  not  be  afraid  of  them.  His  father  had 
not  been — and  he  would  never  be. 

And  there  was  a  voice  within  him  which  kept 
whispering  as  did  the  one  which  counselled  the 
abandonment  of  his  illegal  calling,  the  abandon- 
ment of  that  other  effort,  infinitely  dearer  to  him, 
to  win  Madge  Brierly's  love  and  hand  in  marriage. 
His  common-sense  assured  him  that  she  was  not 
made  for  such  as  he,  that,  while  she  had  been  born 
there  in  the  mountains  there  were  delicacies,  refine- 
ments in  her  which  would  make  her  mating  with 
his  rude  and  uncouth  strength  impossible,  would 
make  it  cruelly  unhappy  for  her,  even  should  it 
come  about.  But  this  voice  he  steadfastly  declined 
to  listen  to,  even  more  emphatically  than  he  did  to 

152 


'IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


that  which  counselled  caution  in  his  calling.  Again 
he  ground  his  teeth.  His  heels,  when  they  came 
down  upon  the  rocky  mountain  trails  up  which  he 
soon  was  climbing,  fell  on  the  slopes  so  heavily 
that,  constantly,  his  progress  was  followed  by  the 
rattle  of  small  stones  down  the  inclined  path  behind 
him,  constant  little  landslides.  And,  at  ordinary 
times,  Joe  Lorey,  awkward  as  he  looked  to  be,  could 
scale  a  sloping  sand-bank  without  sending  down  a 
sliding  spoonful  to  betray  the  fact  that  he  was  mov- 
ing on  it  to  the  wild  things  it  might  startle. 

Heavily  he  resolved  within  his  soul,  against  his 
own  best  judgment,  to  keep  up  both  fights  and  win. 

The  dynamite  which  he  had  stolen  and  which 
nestled  in  his  game-sack  comforted  him,  although 
he  did  not  know  how  he  would  use  it.  Many  times, 
as  he  worked  through  the  narrow  trails,  jumped 
from  stepping-stone  to  stepping-stone  in  crossing 
mountain-streams,  pulled  himself  up  steep  and  rocky 
slopes  by  clutching  swaying  branches,  or  rough- 
angled  boulders,  he  let  his  left  hand  slip  down  to 
the  side  of  the  old  game-sack,  where,  through  the 
soft  leather,  he  could  plainly  feel  the  smooth,  ter- 
rific cylinder. 

He  swore  a  mighty  mountain  oath  that  none  of 
the  advancing  forces  ever  should  win  victory  of 
him.  If  the  revenuers  ever  tried  to  get  him,  let 
God  help  them,  for  they  would  need  help;  if  Frank 
Layson  stole  his  girl  from  him,  then  let  God  help 
him,  also,  for  even  more  than  would  the  revenuers 

153 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


the  young  blue-grass  gentleman  would  need  assist- 
ance from  some  mighty  power. 

But  a  fate  was  closing  on  Joe  Lorey  which  all 
his  uncouth  strength  could  not  avert.  As  he  had 
left  the  railway  those  two  men  whom  simple- 
minded  Miss  Alathea  had  supposed  were  engineers, 
but  who  had  not  mingled  with  the  throng  of  rail- 
way builders  had  looked  at  Horace  Holton  for  con- 
firmation of  their  guess.  In  a  quick  glance,  so 
keen  that  they  could  not  mistake  its  meaning  so  in- 
stantaneous that  none  else  could  suspect  that  the 
three  men  were  even  casual  acquaintances,  he  had 
told  them  they  had  guessed  aright. 

They  sauntered  off  and  disappeared  in  the  direc- 
tion whence  the  mountaineer  had  gone,  and,  though 
his  feet  were  well  accustomed  to  the  trails  and  were 
as  expert  in  their  climbing  as  any  mountaineer's  for 
miles,  these  men  proved  more  expert;  though  his 
ear  was  as  acute  as  a  wild  animal's,  so  silently  they 
moved  that  never  once  a  hint  that  they  were  fol- 
lowing, ever  following  behind  him,  reached  it ;  their 
endurance  was  as  great  as  his,  their  woods-craft 
was  as  sly  as  his. 

A  fate  was  closing  on  Joe  Lorey.  The  march  of 
civilization  was,  indeed,  advancing  toward  his 
mountain  fastnesses  at  last.  And  nothing  stays  the 
march  of  civilization. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  afternoon  was  waning  as  Joe  climbed  a  sud- 
den rise  and  saw  before  him  Layson's  camp. 

Through  a  cleft  in  the  guardian  range  the  sun's 
rays  penetrated  red  and  fiery.  Already  the  quick 
chill  of  the  coming  evening  had  begun  to  permeate 
the  air.  A  hawk,  sailing  from  a  day  of  foraging 
among  the  hen-yards  of  the  distant  valley,  flew 
heavily  across  the  sky,  burdened  with  plunder  for 
its  little  ones,  nested  at  the  top  of  a  black  stub  on 
the  mountain-side.  Squirrels  were  home-going  after 
a  busy  day  among  the  trees.  The  mournful  bark- 
ing of  young  foxes,  anxious  for  their  dinners, 
thrilled  the  air  with  sounds  of  woe.  Among  the 
smaller  birds  the  early  nesters  were  already  twit- 
tering in  minor  among  the  trees  and  thickets;  a 
mountain-eagle  cleft  the  air  in  the  hawk's  trail,  so 
high  that  only  a  keen  eye  could  have  caught  sight 
of  him.  Daylight  insects  were  beginning  to  abate 
their  clamor,  while  their  fellows  of  the  night  were 
tuning  for  the  evening  concert.  Mournfully,  and 
very  faintly,  came  a  locomotive's  wail  from  the  far 
valley. 

155 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Joe  Lorey  paused  grimly  in  his  progress  to  stare 
at  the  rough  shack  which  housed  the  man  he  hated. 
He  was  no  coward,  and  he  would  not  take  advantage 
of  the  loneliness  and  isolation  of  the  spot  to  do  him 
harm  surreptitiously,  but  vividly  the  thought  thrilled 
through  him  that  someday  he  would  assail  him. 
Smoke  was  curling  from  the  mud-and-stick  chimney 
of  the  little  structure,  and  he  smiled  contemptuously 
as  he  thought  of  how  the  blue-grass  youth  was 
doubtless  pottering,  within,  getting  ready  to  go 
down  into  the  valley  to  greet  his  fine  friends  and  be 
greeted.  He  had  no  doubt  that  long  ere  this  the 
aged  negro  had  reached  him  with  the  news  of  their 
arrival.  He  wondered,  with  a  fierce  leap  of  hope, 
if,  possibly,  their  coming  might  not  be  the  signal 
for  the  man's  departure  from  the  country  where 
he  was  not  wanted. 

This  hope  keenly  thrilled  him,  for  a  moment, 
but,  an  instant  later,  when,  through  the  small  win- 
dow, he  saw  the  youth  seat  himself,  alone,  before 
a  blazing  fire  of  logs,  stretch  out  his  legs  and  lounge 
in  the  comfort  of  the  blaze,  it  left  him.  He  won- 
dered if  Lay  son  did  not  intend  to  go  down  at  all  to 
meet  his  friends. 

Just  then  his  quick  ear  caught  the  sound  of  stum- 
bling, hurried  footsteps,  plainly  not  a  mountaineer's, 
down  in  the  rough  woodland,  below.  Instantly  his 
muscles  tautened,  instantly  he  brought  his  rifle  to 
position;  but  he  soon  let  it  fall  again  and  smiled, 
perhaps,  for  the  first  time  that  day. 

156 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Lawsy!  Lawsy!"  he  could  hear  a  scared  voice 
muttering.  "Lawsy,  I  is  los',  fo'  suah !" 

His  smile  broadened  to  a  wide,  malicious  grin 
of  satisfaction.  The  black  messenger  who  had  been 
started  with  the  news,  evidently  had  not  fared  well 
upon  the  way,  and  was,  but  now,  arriving.  "It's 
that  nigger  wanderin'  around  up  hyar,"  he  mused. 
And  then :  "I'm  goin'  to  have  some  fun  with  him." 

Silently  he  slipped  down  the  path  by  which  he  had 
so  recently  ascended,  and,  at  a  good  distance  from 
the  cabin,  but  still  well  in  advance  of  the  unhappy 
negro,  hid  behind  a  rock,  awaiting  his  approach. 

Old  Neb,  advancing,  scared  tremendously,  was 
talking  to  himself  in  a  loud,  excited  voice. 

"Oh,  golly!"  he  exclaimed.  "Dis  am  a  pretty 
fix  for  a  blue-grass  cullud  gemman!  Dis  am  a 
pretty  fix — los',  los'  up  heah,  in  de  midst  of  wolves 
an'  painters!" 

Joe,  from  behind  his  rock,  wailed  mournfully  in 
startling  imitation  of  a  panther's  call. 

The  darkey  almost  fell  prone  in  his  fright. 
"Name  o'  goodness!"  he  exclaimed.  "Wha'  dat? 
Oh — oh — dere's  a  painter,  now!" 

Joe  called  again,  more  mournfully,  more  omin- 
ously than  before. 

Neb's  fright  became  a  trembling  panic.  Hit's 
a-comin'  closer!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  feel  as  if  de 
debbil's  gwine  ter  git  me!"  He  stooped  and  started 
on  a  crouching  run  directly  toward  the  rock  behind 
which  Joe  was  hiding. 

157 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


As  the  old  man  would  have  passed,  Joe  jumped 
out  from  his  ambush,  and,  bringing  his  right  hand 
down  heavily  upon  the  darky's  shoulder,  emitted  a 
wild  scream,  absolutely  terrifying  in  its  savage 
ferocity.  With  a  howl  Neb  dropped  upon  his 
knees,  praying  in  an  ecstasy  of  fear. 

"Oh,  good  Mister  Painter,  good  Mister  Deb- 
bil "  he  began. 

Inasmuch  as  he  was  not  devoured  upon  the  in- 
stant, he  finally  ventured  to  look  up  and  Joe  laughed 
loudly. 

So  great  was  the  relief  of  the  old  negro  that  he 
did  not  think  of  anger.  A  sickly  smile  spread  slowly 
on  his  face.  "De  Lawd  be  praised!"  he  said. 
"Why,  hit's  a  man!" 

"Reckon  I  am,"  said  Joe.  "Generally  pass  for 
one."  Then,  although  he  knew  quite  well  just  why 
the  man  had  come,  from  whom,  for  whom,  he  asked 
sternly  to  confuse  him:  "What  you  doin'  in  these 
mountings  ?" 

"I's  lookin'  fo'  my  massa,  young  Marse  Frank 
Layson,  suh,"  Neb  answered  timidly. 

"You  needn't  to  go  fur  to  find  him,"  Lorey  an- 
swered bitterly.  "You  needn't  to  go  fur  to  find 
him." 

The  old  negro  looked  at  him,  puzzled  and  fright- 
ened by  his  grim  tone  and  manner. 

"Why — why "  he  began.  "Is  it  hereabouts 

he  hunts  fo'  deer?  He  wrote  home  he  was  findin* 
good  spo't  in  the  mountains,  huntin'  deer." 

158 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Joe's  mouth  twitched  ominously,  involuntarily. 
The  mere  presence  of  Old  Neb,  there,  was  another 
evidence  of  the  great  advantage,  which,  he  began  to 
feel  with  hopeless  rage,  the  man  who  had  stolen  that 
thing  from  him  which  he  prized  most  highly,  had 
over  him.  The  negro  was  his  servant.  Servants 
meant  prosperity,  prosperity  meant  power.  Back- 
woodsman as  he  was,  Joe  Lorey  knew  that  per- 
fectly. His  face  gloomed  in  the  twilight. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  bitterly,  "it's  here  he  has  been 
huntin' — huntin'  deer — the  pootiest  deer  these 
mountings  ever  see."  Of  course  the  old  negro  did 
not  understand  the  man's  allusion.  He  was  puzzled 
by  the  speech ;  but  Joe  went  on  without  an  explana- 
tion: "But  thar  is  danger  in  sech  huntin'.  Your 
young  master,  maybe,  better  keep  a  lookout  for  his- 
self!" 

His  voice  trembled  with  intensity. 

In  the  meantime  Layson  was  still  seated  thought- 
fully before  his  fire  of  crackling  "down-wood," 
busy  with  a  thousand  speculations.  Just  what 
Madge  Brierly,  the  little  mountain  girl,  meant  to 
him,  really,  he  could  not  quite  determine.  He  knew 
that  he  had  been  most  powerfully  attracted  to  her, 
but  he  did  not  fail  to  recognize  the  incongruity  of 
such  a  situation.  He  had  never  been  a  youth  of 
many  love-affairs.  Perhaps  his  regard  for  horses 
and  the  "sport  of  kings"  had  kept  him  from  much 
travelling  along  the  sentimental  paths  of  dalliance 
with  the  fair  sex.  Barbara  Holton,  back  in  the 

159 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


bluegrass  country,  had  been  almost  the  only  girl 
whom  he  had  ever  thought,  seriously,  of  marrying, 
and  he  had  not,  actually,  spoken,  yet,  to  her  about 
it.  When  he  had  left  the  lowlands  for  the  moun- 
tains he  had  meant  to,  though,  when  he  returned. 
There  were  those,  he  thought,  who  believed  them  an 
affianced  couple.  Now  he  wondered  if  they  ever 
would  be,  really,  and  if,  without  actually  speaking, 
he  had  not  led  her  to  believe  that  he  would  speak. 
He  was  astonished  at  the  thrill  of  actual  fear  he  felt 
as  he  considered  the  mere  possibility  of  this. 

The  news  which  had  been  brought  to  him  by  mail 
that  upon  the  morrow  he  would  see  the  girl  again, 
in  company  with  his  Aunt  and  Colonel  Doolittle,  had 
focussed  matters  in  his  mind.  Did  he  really  love 
the  haughty,  blue-grass  beauty?  He  was  far  from 
sure  of  it,  as  he  sat  there  in  the  little  mountain- 
cabin,  although  he  had  been  certain  that  he  did  when 
he  had  left  the  lowlands. 

It  seemed  almost  absurd,  even  to  his  young  and 
sentimental  mind,  that  one  in  his  position  should 
have  lost  his  heart  to  an  uneducated  girl  like  Madge, 
but  he  definitely  decided  that,  at  any  rate,  he  had 
never  loved  the  other  girl.  If  it  was  not  really 
love  he  felt  for  the  small  maiden  of  the  forest-fire 
and  spelling-book,  it  surely  was  not  love  he  felt  for 
the  brilliant,  showy,  bluegrass  girl. 

He  was  reflecting  discontentedly  that  he  did  not 
know  exactly  what  he  felt  or  what  he  wanted,  when 
he  heard  Joe  Lorey's  startling  imitation  of  the 

1 60 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


panther's  cry,  outside,  and,  rising,  presently,  when 
careful  listening  revealed  the  fact  that  the  less  ob- 
trusive sound  of  human  voices  followed  what  had 
seemed  to  be  the  weird,  uncanny  call  of  the  wild- 
beast,  he  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  so  that  he 
could  better  listen. 

Joe  and  the  negro  had  not  been  in  actual  view  of 
Layson's  cabin,  up  to  that  time.  A  rocky  corner,  ris- 
ing at  the  trail's  side,  had  concealed  it.  Now  they 
stepped  around  this  and  the  lighted  door  and  win- 
dows of  the  little  structure  stood  out,  despite  in- 
creasing darkness,  plainly  in  their  view. 

Almost  instantly  old  Neb  recognized  the  silhouette 
of  Layson's  figure  there  against  the  firelight  from 
within. 

"Marse  Frank!"  he  cried.     "Marse  Frank!" 

Layson,  startled  by  the  unexpected  sound  of  the 
familiar  voice  there  in  the  wilderness,  rushed  from 
the  door,  took  Neb's  trembling  hand  and  led  him 
to  the  cabin. 

"Neb,  old  Neb!"  he  cried.  "By  all  that's  won- 
derful! How  did  you  get  here  alone?  I  thought 
you  all  were  to  come  up  to-morrow.  Where  is  Aunt 
'Lethe,  and  the  Colonel,  and — and " 

Neb,  his  troubles  all  forgotten  as  quickly  as  a 
child's,  stood  wringing  his  young  master's  hand  with 
extravagant  delight.  Joe  Lorey  disappeared  like  a 
flitting  shadow  of  the  coming  night. 

"Dey're  all  down  at  de  railroad,  suh,"  said  Neb. 
"Dey're  all  down  at  de  railroad.  Got  heah  a  day 

161 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


befo'  dey  t'ought  dey  would,  suh,  an'  sent  me  on 
ahead  to  let  you  know.  I  been  wanderin'  aroun'  fo' 
a  long  time  a-tryin'  fo'  to  fin'  yo\  Dat  teamster 
what  gib  me  a  lif'",  he  tol'  me  dat  de  trail  war  cleah 
from  whar  he  dropped  me  to  yo'  cabin,  but  I  couldn't 
fin'  it,  suh,  an'  I  got  los'." 

"And  the  others  all  are  waiting  at  the  railroad 
for  me?  I  was  going  down  to  meet  them  to-mor- 
row." 

"Dey  don't  expect  you  till  to-morrow,  now,  suh. 
Ev'rybody  tol'  'em  that  you  couldn't  git  dar  till  to- 
morrow. I  reckon  dey'll  be  com'fable.  Fo'ty  men 
was  tryin'  fo'  to  make  'em  so  when  7  lef."  The 
old  darky  laughed.  "Looked  like  dat  dem  chaps 
wat's  layin'  out  dat  railroad,  dar,  ain't  seen  a 
woman's  face  fo'  yeahs  an'  yeahs,  de  way  dey 
flocked  aroun'.  Ev'y  tent  in  de  destruction  camp 
war  at  deir  suhvice  in  five  minutes." 

Frank  was  busy  at  the  fire  with  frying-pan  and 
bacon.  The  old  negro  was  worn  out.  The  young 
man  disregarded  his  uneasy  protests  and  made  him 
sit  in  comfort  while  he  cooked  a  supper  for  him. 

"So  you  got  lost !  Who  finally  set  you  straight  ? 
I  heard  you  talking,  there,  with  someone." 

"A  young  pusson,  suh,"  said  Neb,  with  dignity. 
Lorey  had  befriended  him,  he  knew,  at  last ;  but  he 
had  scared  him  into  panic  to  begin  with.  "A  young 
pusson,  suh,"  he  said,  "what  made  me  think  he  was 
a  paintuh,  suh,  to  staht  with.  Made  me  think  he 


162 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


was  a  paintuh,  suh,  or  else  de  debbil,  wia  his 
howlin'." 

Layson  laughed  long  and  heartily.  "Must  have 
been  Joe  Lorey,"  he  surmised.  "I  heard  that  cry 
and  thought,  myself,  it  was  a  panther.  He's  the 
only  one  on  earth,  I  guess,  who  can  imitate  the 
beasts  so  well.  Where  is  he,  now  ? ' 

"Lawd  knows!  I  see  him  dar,  close  by  me,  den 
I  seed  you  in  de  doah,  an'  when  I  looked  aroun' 
ag'in,  he  had  plumb  faded  clean  away!" 

"They're  wonderful,  these  mountaineers,  with 
their  woodscraft." 

"Debbil  craf,  mo'  like,"  said  Neb,  a  bit  resent- 
ful, still. 

Frank  smiled  at  the  thought  of  his  dear  Aunt, 
precise  and  elegant,  compelled  to  spend  the  night 
in  a  construction  camp  beneath  white-canvas. 

"What  did  Aunt  'Lethe  think  about  a  night  in 
tents?"  he  asked. 

"Lawd,"  said  Neb,  plainly  trying  to  gather 
bravery  for  something  which  he  wished  to  say,  "I 
didn't  ax  huh.  Too  busy  with  my  worryin'." 

"Worrying  at  what,  Neb?" 

"Oveh  dat  Miss  Holton  an'  her  father." 

"Mr.  Holton  didn't  come,  too,  did  he?" 

"No;  he  didn't  come  wid  us,  suh;  but  he  met 
us  dar  down  by  de  railroad.  Wasn't  lookin'  for 
him,  an'  I  guess  he  wasn't  lookin',  jus'  exactly,  to 
see  us.  But  he  was  dar  an'  now  he's  jus'  a  membuh 
of  ouah  pahty,  suh,  as  good  as  Gunnel  Doolittle. 

163 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Hit  don't  seem  right  to  me,  suh;  no  suh,  hit  don't 
seem  right  to  me." 

"Why,  Neb!" 

"An'  dat  Miss  Barbara!  .She  was  dead  sot  to 
see  you,  an'  Miss  'Lethe  was  compelled  to  ax  her 
fo'  to  come  along.  She  didn't  mean  to,  fust  off; 
no  suh.  But  she  had  to,  in  de  end.  Den  I  war 
plumb  beat  when  I  saw  Mister  Holton  stalkin'  up 
dat  platfohm  like  he  owned  it  an'  de  railroad  an' 
de  hills  and  de  hull  yearth.  But  he's  bettuh  heah 
dan  down  at  home,  Marse  Frank.  He  don't  be- 
long down  in  de  blue-grass." 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  impertinent,  Neb.  Don't 
meddle.  You  always  have  been  prejudiced  against 
Barbara  and  her  father." 

The  old  negro  answered  quickly,  bitterly.  "I 
ain't  likely  to  fuhgit,"  said  he,  "dat  de  only  blow 
dat  evuh  fell  upon  my  back  was  from  his  han'!  I 
guess  you  rickollick  as  well  as  I  do.  He  cotch  me 
coon-huntin'  on  his  place  an'  strung  me  up.  He'd 
jes'  skinned  me  dar  alive  if  you-all  hadn't  heered 
my  hollerin'  an'  run  in." 

Layson  was  uneasy  at  the  turn  the  talk  had 
taken.  "That  was  years  ago,  Neb,"  he  expostu- 
lated. 

"Don't  seem  yeahs  ago  to  me,  suh.  Huh!  De 
only  blow  dat  evuh  fell  upon  my  back!  But  yo' 
snatched  dat  whip  out  of  his  han'  an'  den  yo' 
laid  it,  with  ev'y  ounce  of  stren'th  war  in  yo', 
right  acrost  his  face!" 

164 


L\  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Layson,  unwilling  to  be  harsh  with  the  old  man 
and  forbid  him  to  say  more,  ostentatiously  busied 
himself,  now,  about  the  table  with  the  frying-pan 
and  other  dishes,  hoping,  thus,  to  discourage 
further  talk  of  this  sort. 

"No,  suh,"  Neb  went  on  with  shaking  head,  "I 
jus'  nachelly  don'  like  him.  Don't  like  either  of 
'em.  An'  he,  Marse  Frank,  he  nevuh  will  fuhgit 
dat  blow,  an'  don't  you  think  he  will!" 

"That's  all  over,  long  ago,"  said  Frank,  as  he 
put  the  finishing  touches  on  the  old  man's  supper. 
"And  what  had  Barbara  to  do  with  it?  She  can't 
help  what  her  father  does." 

Neb  drew  up  to  the  table  with  a  continuously 
shaking  head.  For  months  he  had  desired  to  speak 
his  mind  to  his  young  master,  but  had  never  dared 
to  take  so  great  a  liberty.  Now  the  unusual  cir- 
cumstances they  were  placed  in,  the  fact  that  he 
had  been  lost  in  the  mountains  in  his  service  and 
half  scared  to  death,  imbued  him  with  new  bold- 
ness. 

"She  kain't  he'p  what  he  does,  suh,  no,"  said 
he.  "But  listen,  now,  Marse  Frank,  to  po'  ol'  Neb. 
De  pizen  vine  hit  don't  b'ar  peaches,  an'  night- 
shade berries — dey  ain't  hulsome,  eben  ef  dey're 
pooty." 

"Neb,  stop  that!"  Layson  commanded  sharply. 

The  old  negro  half  slipped  from  the  chair  in 
which  he  had  been  sitting  wearily.  Once  he  had 
started  on  the  speech  which  he  had  made  his  mind 

165 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


up,  months  ago,  that,  some  day,  he  would  screw 
his  courage  up  to,  he  would  not  be  stopped. 

"Oh,  honey,"  he  exclaimed,  holding  out  his  trem- 
ulous old  hands  in  a  gesture  of  appeal,  while  the 
fire-light  flickered  on  a  face  on  which  affection  and 
real  sincerity  were  plain,  "Fs  watched  ovuh  you 
evuh  sence  yo'  wuh  a  baby,  an'  when  I  see  dat 
han'some  face  o'  hers  was  drawin'  of  yo'  on,  it 
jus'  nigh  broke  my  oF  brack  heaht,  it  did.  It  did, 
Marse  Frank,  fo'  suah." 

The  young  man  could  not  reprimand  the  aged 
negro.  He  knew  that  all  he  said  came  from  the 
heart,  a  heart  as  utterly  unselfish  and  devoted  in  its 
love  as  human  heart  could  be. 

"Oh,  pshaw,  Neb!"  he  said  soothingly.  Don't 
worry.  Perhaps  I  did  go  just  a  bit  too  far  with 
Barbara — young  folks,  you  know! — but  that's  all 
over,  now."  Again  he  wondered  most  uncomfort- 
ably if  this  were  really  true,  again  his  mind  made 
its  comparisons  between  the  bluegrass  girl  and 
sweet  Madge  Brierly.  "There's  no  danger  that 
Woodlawn  will  have  any  other  mistress  than  my 
dear  Aunt  'Lethe  for  many  a  long  year,"  he  con- 
cluded rather  lamely. 

The  emotion  of  the  ancient  darky  worried  him. 
It  was  proof  that  evidence  of  a  love  affair  with 
Barbara  Holton  had  been  plain  to  every  eye,  he 
thought. 

Neb  now  slid  wholly  from  the  chair  and  dropped 
upon  his  knees  close  by  the  youth  he  loved,  grasp- 

166 


AY  OLD  KENTUCKY 


ing  his  hand  and  pressing  it  against  his  faithful 
heart. 

"Oh,  praise  de  Lawd,  Marse  Frank;  oh,  praise 
de  Lawd!"  he  cried. 

Old  Neb  slept  with  an  easier  heart,  that  night, 
than  had  throbbed  in  his  old  black  bosom  since 
the  probability  that  Barbara  Holton  would  be  a 
member  of  the  party  which  was  to  visit  his  young 
master  in  the  mountains,  had  first  begun  to  worry 
him.  But  long  after  he  had  found  unconsciousness 
on  the  boughs-and-blanket  bed  which  he  had  fash- 
ioned for  himself  under  Frank's  direction,  Layson, 
himself,  was  wandering  beneath  the  stars,  thinking 
of  the  problem  that  beset  him. 

He  was  sorry  Barbara  was  coming  to  the  moun- 
tains. Why  had  his  Aunt  'Lethe  brought  her? 
What  would  that  dear  lady  think  about  Madge 
Brierly,  wood-nymph,  rustic  phenomenon?  What 
had  Horace  Holton  been  doing  in  the  mountains, 
secretly,  to  have  been  surprised,  discomfited  as  Neb 
had  said  he  was,  at  sight  of  the  Colonel,  Miss 
'Lethe  and  his  daughter? 

But  before  he  had  finished  the  pipe  which  he 
had  carried  into  the  crisp  air  of  the  sharp  mountain 
night  for  company,  his  thought  had  left  the  Hoi- 
tons  and  were  seeking  (as  they  almost  always  were, 
these  days  and  nights),  his  little  pupil  of  the 
spelling-book,  his  little  burden  of  the  brush-fire 
flight.  He  looked  across  the  mountain-side  toward 
where  her  lonely  cabin  hid  in  its  secluded  fastness. 

167 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


There  was  a  late  light  to-night  ashine  from  its 
small  window. 

"She'll  like  her,"  he  murmured  softly  in  the 
night.  "She'll  love  her.  Aunt  'Lethe'll  under- 
stand!" 

And  then  he  wondered  just  exactly  what  it  was 
that  he  felt  so  very  certain  his  Aunt  'Lethe  would 
be  sure  to  understand.  He  did  not  understand, 
himself,  precisely  what  had  happened  to  him,  his 
life-plans,  heart-longings. 

Strolling  there  beneath  the  stars  he  gave  no 
thought  to  poor  Joe  Lorey,  until,  like  a  night- 
shadow,  the  moonshiner  stalked  along  the  trail  and 
passed  him.  Layson  called  to  him  good-natur- 
edly, but  the  mountaineer  gave  him  no  heed.  Frank 
stood,  gazing  after  him  in  the  soft  darkness,  in 
amazement.  Then  a  quick,  suspicious  thrill  shot 
through  him.  The  man  was  bound  up  the  steep 
trail  toward  Madge's  cabin.  Presently  he  heard 
him  calling.  He  went  slowly  up  the  trail,  himself. 

The  girl  came  quickly  from  her  cabin  in  answer 
to  the  shouting  of  the  mountaineer. 

"What  is  it,  Joe?"  she  asked. 

"I  want  a  word  with  you.  I've  come  a  pur- 
pose," Lorey  answered  sullenly. 

The  girl  was  almost  frightened  by  his  manner. 
She  had  never  seen  him  in  this  mood ;  he  had  never 
come  to  her,  alone,  at  night,  before.  "Well,  Joe, 
you'll  have  to  wait,"  said  she.  "I've  got  some 


168 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


things  to  do,  to-night."  Her  sewing  was  not  yet 
half  finished. 

Standing  on  her  little  bridge,  she  held  with  one 
hand  to  the  worn  old  rope  by  means  of  which  she 
presently  would  pull  it  up.  She  did  not  take  Joe 
very  seriously;  in  the  darkness  she  could  not  see 
the  grim  expression  of  his  brow,  the  firm  set  of  his 
jaw,  the  clenched  hands,  one  of  which  was  pressed 
against  the  game  sack  with  his  powerful  plunder 
hidden  in  it.  She  laughed  and  tried  to  joke,  for, 
even  though  she  did  not  guess  how  serious  he  was, 
her  heart  had  told  her  that  some  day,  ere  long, 
there  must  of  stern  necessity  be  a  full  understand- 
ing between  her  and  the  mountaineer,  and  that  he 
would  go  from  her,  after  it,  with  a  sore  heart.  In 
the  past  she  had  not  wished  to  marry  him,  but  she 
had  never  definitely  said,  even  to  herself,  that  such 
a  4thing  was  quite  impossible  for  all  time  to  come. 
Now  she  knew  that  this  was  so,  although  she  would 
not  acknowledge,  even  to  herself,  the  actual  rea- 
son for  this  certainty.  No ;  she  could  never  marry 
Joe.  She  hoped  that  he  would  never  again  beg 
her  to. 

"Come  back  some  other  time,  when  I  ain't  quite 
so  busy,"  she  said  trying  to  speak  jokingly.  "To- 
morrow, or  nex'  week,  or  Crismuss." 

He  stood  gazing  at  her  sourly.  "I'll  come 
sooner,"  he  said  slowly.  "Sooner.  An'  hark  ye, 
Madge,  if  that  thar  foreigner  comes  in  atween  us, 
I'm  goin'  to  spile  his  han'some  face  forever!" 

169 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"What  nonsense  you  do  talk!"  the  girl  ex- 
claimed, but  her  heart  sank  with  apprehension  as 
the  man  stalked  down  the  path.  She  did  not  pull 
the  draw-bridge  up,  at  once,  but  stood  there,  gazing 
after  him,  disturbed. 

Again  he  met  Layson,  still  strolling  slowly  on 
the  trail,  busy  with  confusing  thoughts,  puffing 
at  his  pipe.  The  mountaineer  did  not  call  out  a 
greeting,  but  stepped  out  of  the  trail,  for  Frank  to 
pass,  without  a  word. 

"Why,  Joe,"  said  Layson,  "I  didn't  see  you. 
How  are  you?"  He  held  out  his  hand. 

The  mountaineer  said  nothing  for  an  instant, 
then  he  straightened  to  his  lank  full  height  and 
held  his  own  hand  close  against  his  side.  "No," 
he  said,  "I  can't,  I  can't." 

Layson  was  astonished.  He  peered  at  him. 
"Why,  Joe!"  said  he;  and  then:  "See  here — what 
have  I  ever  done  to  you?" 

Joe  turned  on  him  quickly.  "Done?"  he  cried. 
"Maybe  nothin',  maybe  everythin'."  He  paused 
dramatically,  unconscious  of  the  fierce  intentness  of 
his  gaze,  the  lithe  aggressiveness  of  his  posture. 
"But  I  warns  you,  now — you  ain't  our  kind!  Th' 
mountings  ain't  no  place  for  you.  The  sooner  you 
gits  out  of  'em,  the  better  it'll  be  fer  you." 

Layson  stood  dumbfounded  for  a  moment.  Then 
he  would  have  said  some  further  word,  but  the 
mountaineer,  his  arm  pressed  tight  against  that  old 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


game-sack,  stalked  down  the  trail.  Suddenly  Lay- 
son  understood. 

"Jealous,  by  Jove!"  he  said.  "Jealous  of  n<ttle 
Madge!"  Slowly  he  turned  about,  puffing  fiercely 
at  his  pipe,  his  thoughts  a  compound  of  hot  anger 
and  compassion. 

Madge,  filled  with  dread  of  what  her  disgruntled 
mountain  suitor  might  be  led  to  do  by  his  black 
mood,  had  not  yet  re-crossed  her  draw-bridge,  but 
was  standing  by  it,  listening  intently,  when  she 
heard  Layson's  footsteps  nearing.  Her  heart  gave 
a  great  throb  of  real  relief.  She  had  not  exactly 
feared  that  trouble  really  would  come  between  the 
men,  but — Lorey  came  of  violent  stock  and  his 
face  had  been  dark  and  threatening. 

She  saw  Layson  long  before  he  knew  that  she 
was  there. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  relieved,  "that  you?" 

He  hurried  to  her.  "I  thought  you  mountain 
people  all  went  early  to  your  beds,"  said  he,  and 
laughed,  "but  I  met  Joe  Lorey  on  the  trail  and 
here  you  are,  standing  by  your  bridge,  star-gaz- 
ing." 

Of  course  she  would  not  tell  him  of  her  worries. 
She  took  the  loophole  offered  by  his  words  and 
looked  gravely  up  at  the  far,  spangled  sky.  "Yes," 
said  she,  "they're  mighty  pretty,  ain't  they?" 

Layson  was  in  abnormal  mood.  The  prospect 
of  his  Aunt's  arrival,  the  certainty  that  something 
more  than  he  had  thought  had  come  out  of  his 

171 


77V  OLD  KENTUCKY 


mountain  sojourn,  the  fact  that  he  was  sure  that 
he  regretted  Barbara  Holton's  coming,  old  Neb's 
arrival,  and  his  raking  up  of  ancient  scores  against 
the  lowland  maiden's  father,  his  meeting  with  Joe 
Lorey  and  the  latter's  treatment  of  him,  had 
wrought  him  to  a  pitch  of  mild  excitement.  The 
girl  looked  most  alluring  as  she  stood  there  in 
the  moonlight. 

"My  friends  are  in  the  valley  and  are  coming  up 
to-morrow,"  he  said  to  her.  "Do  you  know  that 
this  may  be  the  last  time  I  shall  ever  see  you  all 
alone?" 

She  gasped.  He  had  not  hinted  at  a  thing  like 
that  before.  "You  ain't  going  back  with  them, 
are  you?"  she  asked,  her  voice  a  little  tremulous 
from  the  shock  of  the  surprise.  "You  ain't  going 
back  with  them — never  to  come  hyar  no  more,  are 
you?" 

He  stepped  nearer  to  her.  "Why,  little  one,"  he 
asked,  "would  you  care?" 

"Care?"  she  said  with  thrilling  voice,  and  then, 
gaining  better  self-control,  tried  to  appear  indiffer- 
ent. "Why  should  I?"  she  said  lightly.  "I  ain't 
nothin'  to  you  and  you  ain't  nothin'  to  me." 

His  heart  denied  her  words.  "Don't  say  that!" 
he  cried.  "You  don't  know  how  dear  you've  grown 
to  me."  He  stepped  toward  her  with  his  arms  out- 
stretched. He  almost  reached  her  and  he  knew,  and 
she  knew,  instinctively,  that  if  he  had  he  would 
have  kissed  her. 

172 


"  NO   MAN    CAN   CROSS   THIS  BIUUUK,   UNLESS— UNLESS — " 


Page  178. 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


She  shrank  back  like  a  startled  fawn,  when  his 
foot  was  almost  on  the  bridge  that  spanned  the 
chasm  between  them  and  her  cabin. 

"Don't  you  dare  to  touch  me!"  she  said  fiercely. 

She  sped  back  upon  the  little  bridge,  and,  when 
he  would  have  followed,  held  her  hand  up  with  a 
gesture  of  such  native  dignity,  offended  woman- 
hood, that  he  stopped  where  he  was,  abashed. 

"No — no,  sir;  you  can't  cross  this  bridge,"  said 
she.  "No  man  ever  can,  unless — unless " 

Almost  sobbing,  now,  she  left  the  sentence  in- 
complete; and  then:  "Oh,  you  wouldn't  dared  act 
so  to  a  blue-grass  girl!  But  I  know  what's  right 
as  well  as  them.  It  don't  take  no  book-learnin'  to 
tell  me  as  how  a  kiss  like  that  you  planned  for  me 
would  be  a  sign  that  really  you  care  for  me  no  more 
than  for  the  critters  that  you  hunt  an'  kill  for  pas- 
time up  hyar  among  the  mountings." 

He  would  have  given  much  if  he  had  never  done 
the  foolish  thing.  He  stood  there  with  lowered 
eyes,  bent  head,  abashed,  discomfited. 

"An'  I  'lowed  you  were  my  friend !"  said  she. 

Now  he  looked  up  at  her  and  spoke  out  impul- 
sively: "And  so  I  am,  Madge,  really!  I  was 
.  .  .  wrong.  Forgive  me!" 

She  dropped  her  hands  with  a  weary  change  of 
manner.  "Well,  I  reckon  I  will,"  said  she. 
"You've  been  too  kind  and  good  for  me  to  bear 
a  grudge  ag'in  you ;  but  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  Well, 
maybe  I  had  better  say  good-night" 

173 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


She  walked  slowly  back  across  the  bridge  with- 
out another  word,  pulled  on  its  rope  and  raised  it, 
made  the  rope  fast  and  slowly  disappeared  within 
her  little  cabin. 

"Poor  child !"  said  he,  and  turned  away.  "I  was 
a  brute  to  wound  her." 

As  he  went  down  the  trail,  darkening,  now,  as 
the  moon  slid  behind  the  towering  mountain  back 
of  him,  his  heart  was  in  a  tumult.  "After  all,"  he 
reflected,  "education  isn't  everything.  All  the  cul- 
ture in  the  world  wouldn't  make  her  more  sincere 
and  true.  She  has  taught  me  a  lesson  I  shan't  soon 
forget." 

His  thoughts  turned,  then,  to  the  girl  who  would 
come  up  with  the  party  on  the  following  day. 

"I — wonder!  Was  there  ever,  really,  a  time 
when  I  loved  Barbara?  .  .  .  If  so,  that  time  has 
gone,  now,  never  to  return." 


174 


CHAPTER  IX 

His  visitors  took  Layson  by  surprise,  next  morn- 
ing. They  had  started  from  the  valley  long  before 
he  had  supposed  they  would. 

Holton  saw  him  first  and  nudged  his  daughter, 
who  was  with  him.  They  were  well  ahead  of  Miss 
Alathea  and  the  Colonel,  who  had  been  unable  to 
keep  up  with  them  upon  the  final  sharp  ascent  of 
the  foot- journey  from  the  wagon-road.  The  old 
man  grinned  unpleasantly.  He  had  rather  vulgar 
manners,  often  annoying  to  his  daughter,  who  had 
had  all  the  advantages  which,  in  his  rough,  mys- 
terious youth,  he  had  been  denied. 

"Thar  he  is,  Barb;  thar  he  is,"  he  said,  not 
loudly.  Miss  Alathea  and  the  Colonel,  following 
close  behind,  were  a  restraint  on  him. 

The  girl's  face  was  full  of  eagerness  as  she  saw 
the  man  they  sought.  He  was  busy  polishing  a 
gun,  but  that  his  thoughts  were  occupied  with  some- 
thing less  mechanical  and  not  wholly  pleasant  the 
slight  frown  upon  his  face  made  evident.  "Mr. 
Layson!  Frank!"  she  cried. 

The  young  man  turned,  on  hearing  her,  and  hur- 

175 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


ried  toward  her  and  her  father  with  his  hands  out- 
stretched in  welcome.  He  was  not  overjoyed  to 
have  the  old  man  visit  him,  just  then;  he  was  even 
doubtful  of  the  welcome  which  his  heart  had  for 
the  daughter;  but  he  was  a  southerner  and  in  the 
gentle-born  southerner  real  hospitality  is  quite  in- 
stinctive. 

"Mr.  Holton — Barbara,"  said  he.  "I  am  de- 
lighted. Welcome  to  the  mountains."  He  grasped 
their  hands  in  hearty  greeting.  "But  where  are 
Aunt  Alathea  and  the  Colonel?" 

Holton  tried  to  be  as  cordial  as  his  host.  That 
he  was  very  anxious  to  appear  agreeable  was  evi- 
dent. "Oh,  them  slow-pokes?"  he  said,  laughing. 
"We  didn't  wait  for  them.  We  pushed  on  ahead. 
We  reckoned  as  you  would  be  glad  to  see  us." 

"And  so  I  am." 

"One  in  particular,  maybe,"  Holton  answered, 
with  a  crude  attempt  at  badinage.  He  glanced 
archly  from  the  young  man  to  his  daughter. 

"Father!"  she  exclaimed,  a  bit  annoyed,  and  yet 
not  too  unwilling  that  the  fact  that  she  and  Lay- 
son  were  acknowledged  sweethearts  should  be  at 
once  established. 

"Oh,  I  ain't  been  blind,"  said  Holton,  gaily,  go- 
ing much  farther  than  she  wished  him  to.  "I've  cut 
my  eye-teeth!" 

Then  he  turned  to  Layson  with  an  awkward 
lightness.  "Barbara  told  me  what  passed  between 
you  two  young  folks  afore  you  come  up  to  the 

176 


77V  OLD  KENTUCKY 


mountings,"  he  explained.  And  then,  with  further 
elephantine  airyness:  "I  say,  jest  excuse  me — 
reckon  I'm  in  the  way."  He  made  a  move  as  if 
to  hurry  off. 

Layson  was  not  pleased.  The  old  man  was  an- 
noying, always,  and  now,  after  the  long  revery  of 
the  night  before  about  Madge  Brierly,  this  attitude 
was  doubly  disconcerting.  "Not  at  all,  Mr.  Hoi- 
ton,"  he  said,  somewhat  hastily.  "I'm  sure  we'd 
rather  you'd  remain.  Are  you  sure  the  others  are 
all  right?" 

"Close  behind  us." 

"I'll  go  and  make  sure  that  they  do  not  lose 
their  way." 

Holton  looked  at  his  daughter  in  a  blank  dismay 
after  the  youth  had  started  down  the  hill.  "I  say, 
gal,"  said  he,  "there's  somethin'  wrong  here!" 

She  was  inclined  to  blame  him  for  the  deep  dis- 
comforture  she  felt.  "Why  couldn't  you  let  us 
alone?"  she  answered  angrily.  "You've  spoiled 
everything!" 

The  old  man  looked  at  her,  with  worry  on  his 
face.  "Didn't  you  tell  me  't  was  as  good  as  set- 
tled? You  said  you  were  dead  sure  he  meant  to 
make  you  his  wife." 

She  was  still  petulant,  blaming  him  for  Layson's 
unexpected  lack  of  warmth.  "Yes,  but  you  needn't 
have  interfered!" 

Holton  was  intensely  puzzled,  worried,  almost 
frightened.  He  was  as  anxious  to  have  this  young 

177 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


man  for  a  son-in-law  as  his  daughter  was  to  have 
him  for  a  husband.  Her  marriage  into  such  a 
celebrated  blue-grass  family  as  the  Laysons  were, 
would  firmly  fix  her  social  status,  no  matter  how 
precarious  it  might  be  now,  and  the  match  would 
be  of  great  advantage  to  him  in  a  business  way,  as 
well.  He  stood  there,  thinking  deeply,  very  much 
displeased. 

"There's  somethin'  more  nor  me  has  come  be- 
tween you,"  he  said  finally,  his  face  flushing  with 
a  deep  resentment.  "I  tell  you,  gal,  what  I  be- 
lieved at  first,  deep  in  my  heart,  air  true.  He  was 
only  triflin'  with  you.  Them  aristocrats  down  in 
the  blue-grass  don't  hold  us  no  better  than  the  dust 
beneath  their  feet,  even  if  we  have  got  money. 
It's  family  that  counts  with  them.  Didn't  he  lay 
his  whip  acrost  my  face,  once,  as  if  I  was  a  nig- 
ger ?"  His  wrath  was  rising.  "And  now  he  shows 
that  he  was  only  triflin'  with  you  with  no  real  in- 
tentions of  doin'  as  we  thought  he  would!"  The 
man  was  tremulous  with  wrath.  "Oh,  I'll  be  even 
with  him!" 

Barbara  was  greatly  worried  by  the  situation. 
All  her  life,  despite  the  fact  that  she  was  beautiful, 
despite  the  fact  that  her  father  was  a  rich  man — 
richer,  by  a  dozen  times,  than  many  of  the  people 
for  whose  friendship  she  longed  vainly — she  had 
vaguely  felt  that  there  was  an  invisible  gulf  be- 
tween her  and  the  girls  with  whom  she  came  in 
contact  at  the  exclusive  schools  to  which  she  had 

178 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


been  sent,  between  her  and  the  gentle-folk  with 
whom,  in  some  measure,  she  had  mixed  since  she 
had  left  school-walls.  "Father,"  she  asked  anx- 
iously, "why  do  people  look  down  on  us  so?" 

He  faced  her  with  a  worried  look,  as  if  he  feared 
that  she  might  guess  at  something  which  he  wished 
should  remain  hidden.  "They  say  I  made  my 
money  tradin'  in  niggers,"  he  replied,  at  length. 
"Well,  what  of  it?  Didn't  I  have  the  right?" 

"Are  you  sure  there's  nothing  else?" 

He  seemed  definitely  startled.  "Girl,  what  makes 
you  ask?" 

"Because  sometimes  memories  come  to  me." 

"Memories  of  what?" 

"Of — my  childhood,"  she  said  slowly,  "of  passes 
among  mountains — mountains  much  like  these." 

He  regarded  her  uneasily.  "Oh,  sho,  gal!"  he 
exclaimed,  trying  to  make  light  of  it.  "Reckon 
you've  been  dreamin'.  You  were  never  hyar  be- 
fore." 

But  she  looked  about  her,  unconvinced,  and,  when 
she  spoke,  spoke  slowly,  evidently  trying  to  recall 
with  definite  clarity  certain  things  which  flitted 
through  her  mind  as  vague  impressions  only. 
"Why  does  everything  seem  so  familiar,  here,  then, 
as  if  I  had  just  wakened  in  my  true  surroundings 
after  a  long  sleep  in  which  I  had  had  dreams?" 
There  was,  suddenly,  a  definite  accusation  in  her 
eyes.  "Father,  you  are  trying  to  deceive  me!  I 


179 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


was  once  a  child,  here  in  these  very  mountains!" 
She  stared  about  intently. 

The  speech  had  an  amazing  effect  on  the  old 
man.  He  stepped  close  to  her.  "Hush!"  said  he, 
imperatively.  "Don't  you  dare  speak  such  a  word 
ag'in!" 

She  peered  into  his  eyes.  "There  is  a  secret, 
then !  We  lived  here,  long  ago !" 

"Stop,  I  tell  you!"  he  commanded.  "Don't  hint 
at  such  things,  for  your  life."  He  dropped  his 
voice  to  hoarse  whisper.  "Suppose  I  did  live  hyar, 
once.  I  was  a  smooth-faced  youngster,  then;  my 
own  mother  wouldn't  know  me,  now." 

The  sound  of  voices  coming  up  the  mountain- 
trail  interrupted  the  dramatic  scene. 

"Sh!"  said  he.     "They're  comin'!" 

Frank  was  piloting  his  Aunt  and  Colonel  Doo- 
little.  "This  way,  Aunt  'Lethe,"  they  could  hear 
him  say. 

An  instant  later  he  appeared,  leading  the  way  up 
the  steep  trail.  His  Aunt,  Neb  and  the  Colonel 
followed  him. 

"Now,  Aunt  'Lethe,"  he  said  gaily,  "you  can  rest 
at  last.  Colonel,  I  can  welcome  you  in  earnest. 
This  is,  indeed,  a  pleasure." 

The  Colonel  was  puffing  fiercely  from  the  hard 
work  of  the  climb,  but  his  broad  face  glowed  with 
pleasure.  He  took  a  long,  full  breath  of  the  ex- 
hilerating  mountain  air.  "Pleasure?  It's  a  derby- 
day,  sir,  metaphorically  speaking."  As  he  rested 

1 80 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


he  eyed  the  youngster  with  approval.  "Frank," 
said  he,  "you've  grown  to  be  the  very  image  of  my 
old  friend,  Judge  Layson.  Ah,  five  years  have 
made  their  changes  in  us  all — except  Miss  'Lethe." 
He  bowed  gallantly  in  her  direction,  and  she  gaily 
answered  the  salute. 

Barbara  advanced,  enthusiastically,  looking  at 
the  Colonel  with  arch  envy  in  her  eyes.  "Five 
years  you've  been  in  Europe,  surrounded  by  the 
nobility.  Oh,  Colonel,  what  happiness!" 

He  shook  his  head.  "Happiness  away  from  old 
Kentucky,  surrounded  by  a  lot  of  numb-skulls  who 
couldn't  mix  a  fancy  drink  to  save  their  lives,  who 
know  nothing  of  that  prismatic,  rainbow-hued 
fountain  of  youth,  a  mint-julep?  Ah!" 

"But,  Colonel,"  said  the  girl,  "the  masterpieces 
of  art!" 

"Give  me,"  said  he,  "the  masterpieces  of  Mother 
Nature — the  bright-eyed,  rose-cheeked,  cherry- 
lipped  girls  of  old  Kentucky!" 

There  was  a  general  laugh.  The  Colonel's  gal- 
lantry was  ever-blooming.  Frank  applauded  and 
the  ladies  bowed. 

"By  the  way,  Frank,"  said  the  Colonel,  after 
they  had  been  made  comfortable  in  a  merry  group 
before  the  cabin-door,  "where  is  that  particular 
masterpiece  of  Nature  which  you've  written  us  so 
much  about?  Where  is  the — Diana?" 

Miss  Alathea  smiled  at  her  somewhat  worried 
nephew.  "The  'phenomenon,'  "  said  she. 

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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"According  to  Neb,  who  told  us  of  her  as  we 
worked  up  that  steep  trail,"  said  Barbara,  "the 
"deer.' '  She  laughed,  not  too  good  naturedly 
Neb,  who  was  standing  waiting  orders  near, 
grinned  broadly. 

"Neb,  you  rascal!"  exclaimed  Frank. 

"Come,  where  is  she,  Frank;  where  is  she?" 
asked  the  Colonel. 

The  youth  was  not  too  much  embarrassed,  but 
he  gave  a  quick,  side-glance  at  Barbara.  "She  is 
probably  getting  ready  to  receive  you,"  he  re- 
plied. "I  told  her  I  expected  you  and  she's  been 
very  much  excited  over  it." 

"Adding  to  nature's  charms  the  mysteries  of 
art,"  the  Colonel  said,  approvingly.  "We  shall  ex- 
pect to  be  overwhelmed.  And,  meantime,  while 
we're  waiting,  we  might  as  well  explain  to  you  the 
business  which  has  brought  us  up  here." 

His  face  showed  him  to  be  the  bearer  of  good 
news.  He  rose,  excitedly,  and  went  to  Frank,  to 
put  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  "Now,  my  boy, 
keep  cool,  keep  cool!  I  tell  you,  Frank,  it's  the 
biggest  thing  out.  It'll  make  a  millionaire  of  you 
as  sure  as  Fate  before  the  next  five  years  have 
passed !" 

Layson  was  taken  wholly  by  surprise.  No  one 
had  in  the  least  prepared  him  for  anything  of  this 
sort.  He  had  supposed  the  party  had  come  up  to 
see  him  merely  for  the  pleasure  of  the  trip.  "I 
don't  understand,"  said  he. 

182 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Keep  cool,  keep  cool!"  the  Colonel  urged.  "It 
is  colossal,  metaphorically.  You  see,  I  was  over 
there  in  Europe,  promoting  a  South  American 
mine,  when  I  happened  to  see  in  a  Kentucky  paper 
that  the  Georgetown  Midland  was  to  be  put 
through  these  mountains  near  the  land  your  father 
bought.  That  land,  my  boy,  is  rich  in  coal  and 
iron !" 

The  young  man's  face  shone  with  delight.  "He 
always  said  so!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  meant,  some- 
time, to  investigate." 

"I've  saved  you  the  trouble.  I  came  back  on  the 
next  steamer,  organized  a  syndicate  in  New  York 
City,  sent  an  expert  out  to  carefully  look  into 
things,  and,  on  his  report,  a  company  is  willing  to 
put  in  a  $200,000  plant  to  develop  your  land.  All 
you've  got  to  do  is  to  take  $25,000  worth  of  stock 
and  let  your  coal-land  stand  for  as  much  more." 

The  youth's  face  fell.  "Twenty-five  thousand 
dollars !"  he  exclaimed.  "Why,  Colonel,  I  have  not 
one  fifth  of  it!" 

"Ah,"  said  the  Colonel,  smiling,  "but  here,  like 
a  good  angel,  comes  in  your  dear  Aunt  'Lethe!" 
He  smiled  at  her.  "Isn't  it  so,  Miss  'Lethe?" 

Frank  spoke  up  quickly.  "Surely,"  he  exclaimed 
to  her  as  she  advanced  toward  him,  with  smiles, 
"you  know  I'd  never  take  your  money!" 

"You  must,  Frank,"  she  insisted.  "The  Colonel 
says  it  is  the  chance  of  a  life-time." 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Why,  Auntie,  it's  your  whole  fortune.  I 
wouldn't  risk  it." 

"But  you  could  pay  it  all  back  in  a  month." 

"How?"  he  asked,  not  understanding  in  the 
least. 

"By  selling  Queen  Bess." 

He  flinched.  The  thought  had  not  occurred  to 
him.  "Sell  Queen  Bess !"  said  he.  "The  prettiest, 
the  fastest  mare  in  all  Kentucky!  Never!" 

"My  boy,"  said  the  Colonel,  "the  odds  are  far 
too  heavy — a  million  against  the  mare.  You  can't 
stand  'em." 

"Oh,  Frank,"  said  his  Aunt,  impulsively,  "if 
you'll  only  take  the  money  and  give  up  racing!" 

He  laughed.  Miss  Alathea's  strong  prejudice 
against  the  race-tracks  was  proverbial.  "So  that's 
what  you're  after!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  dear  old 
schemer !" 

"With  your  impulsive,  generous  nature,  racing 
is  sure  to  ruin  you." 

The  Colonel  looked .  first  at  Frank  with  ardent 
sympathy  aglow  in  his  eyes;  then,  after  a  hasty 
glance  at  Miss  Alathea,  he  quickly  changed  the 
meaning  of  his  look  and  spoke  admonishingly. 
"The  voice  of  wisdom!"  he  exclaimed.  "Ah, 
Frank,  from  what  I  hear  I  judge  you're  too  much 
of  a  plunger — like  a  young  fellow  I  once  knew 
who  thought  he  could  win  a  fortune  on  the  race- 
track." He  began,  now,  to  speak  very  seriously. 
"He  was  in  love  with  the  prettiest  and  sweetest 

184 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


girl  in  old  Kentucky,  but  he  wished  to  wait  till  he 
could  get  that  fortune,  and  he  chased  it  here  and 
there,  looking  for  it  mostly  on  the  race-tracks,  until 
he  had  more  grey  hairs  than  he  had  ever  hoped  to 
have  dollars;  he  chased  it  till  his  dream  of  happi- 
ness had  slipped  by,  perhaps  forever.  My  boy,  the 
race-track  is  a  delusion  and  a  snare." 

Miss  Alathea  looked  at  him  with  pleased  sur- 
prise. "Colonel,  your  sentiments  astonish  and  de- 
light me." 

"How  can  you  refuse,"  the  Colonel  said,  "when 
such  a  woman  asks  ?  For  one  who  loves  you,  you 
should  give  those  pleasures  up  without  a  pang." 

In  the  pause  that  followed  he  reflected  on  the 
history  of  the  youth  to  whom  he  had  referred,  for 
that  young  man  was  himself.  He  had  loved  Miss 
Alathea  twenty  years,  but  the  Goddess  Chance  had 
kept  him,  all  that  time,  too  poor  to  ask  her  hand  in 
marriage.  His  heart  beat  with  elation  as  he  real- 
ized that,  possibly,  the  scheme  which  he  had  come 
there  to  the  mountains  to  propose  to  Frank,  might 
remedy  the  evils  of  the  situation. 

Frank  had  been  thinking  deeply.  "But  what 
certainty  is  there,"  he  inquired,  "that  I  can  sell 
Queen  Bess  at  such  a  price?" 

Now  the  Colonel  spoke  with  animation.  "Abso- 
lute. I've  a  written  offer  from  the  Dyer  brothers 
to  take  her  for  twenty-five  thousand  dollars,  if  she 
is  delivered,  safe  and  sound,  on  the  morning  she's 


185 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


to  run  in  the  Ashland  Oaks.  It's  a  dead  sure 
thing,  my  boy.  You  can't  refuse." 

The  young  man  hesitated,  still.  "I'll  investigate, 
and — well,  I'll  see."  He  walked  away,  deep  in 
thought. 

The  Colonel  turned  from  him  to  Miss  Alathea. 
"Miss  'Lethe,  congratulate  yourself.  The  victory 
is  won." 

Frank  turned  upon  his  heel  and  spoke  to  Hoi- 
ton.  "What  do  you  think  of  this  investment?"  he 
inquired. 

"Wai,"  said  Holton,  "I  think  it's  a  blamed  good 
thing.  I'd  only  like  the  chance  to  go  into  it,  my- 
self." He  went  closer  to  the  youth  and  spoke  in 
an  instinctively  low  tone.  "By  the  way,  this  gal, 
hyar,  Madge  Brierly,  owns  fifty  acres  o'  land  down 
there  in  the  valley,  that's  bound  to  be  wuth  money. 
Like  enough,  with  your  help,  I  could  buy  it  for  a 
song.  I'll  make  it  all  right  with  you.  What  do 
you  say?  Is  it  a  bargain,  Layson?"  He  held  out 
his  hand,  evidently  with  no  thought  but  that  the 
questionable  offer  would  be  snapped  up  at  once. 

Layson  drew  back  angrily.     "No,"  he  replied. 

Holton,  seeing  that  he  had  made  a  serious  mis- 
take, tried  to  correct  it.  "Oh,  shucks,  now!  I 
didn't  mean  no  harm.  That's  only  business." 

Layson  was  intensely  angered.  "I  won't  waste 
words  on  you,"  he  said,  "but  think  twice  before 
you  make  me  such  a  proposition  again." 

Helton's  wrath  rose  vividly.     "Damn  him!"  he 

166 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


muttered  as  he  walked  away.  "I'll  pay  him  back 
for  that!  I'll  get  that  gal's  land  in  spite  of  him, 
and  I  won't  stop  at  that.  I'll  pay  him  back  for 
.  .  .  everythin'!  I'll  teach  him  what  it  air  to 
stir  the  hate  o'  hell  in  a  man's  heart!" 

Barbara,  distressed  anew  by  this  unpleasant  epi- 
sode, had  started  to  go  after  him,  when  the  weird 
cry  of  an  owl,  a  long  drawn,  tremulous :  "Hoo- 
oo-oo!"  came  from  somewhere  in  the  forest,  close 
at  hand.  It  startled  her.  "Heavens!"  said  she. 
"What's  that?" 

Neb,  who  also  had  been  startled  at  the  first  pene- 
trating, weird  call,  bethought  himself,  now,  and 
answered  her:  "It's  de  deah." 

"The  phenomenon!"  exclaimed  Miss  Alathea. 

"The  Diana !"  said  the  Colonel,  looking  at  Frank 
slyly. 

"Yes;  she's  coming,"  Frank  said  gaily,  and 
then,  looking  down  the  path,  started  violently. 
"Heavens,  she's  coming !" 

The  Colonel,  who  also  had  looked  down  the 
path,  hurriedly  approached  him,  feigning  worry. 
"Frank,  I  haven't  got  'em  again,  have  I?" 

Madge  approached  them  slowly  in  the  quaint, 
old-fashioned  costume  she  had  resurrected  from 
the  chests  of  her  dead  mother's  finery  and  re-made, 
very  crudely,  in  accordance  with  the  fashion-plates 
which  she  had  found  down  at  the  cross-roads  store. 
The  result  of  her  contriving  was  a  startling  mix- 
ture of  fashions  widely  separated  as  to  periods. 

187 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Her  untutored  taste  had  mixed  colors  dashingly. 
Her  unskilled  fingers  had  sewed  very  bunchy 
seams. 

The  girl  was  much  embarrassed :  it  required  the 
last  ounce  of  her  bravery  to  advance.  Before  she 
actually  reached  the  little  group,  she  half  hid,  in- 
deed, behind  a  tree.  It  was  from  this  shelter  that 
she  called  her  greeting:  "Howdy,  folks,  howdy!" 

Frank  went  toward  her  with  an  outstretched 
hand.  "Come,  Madge,"  said  he,  encouragingly. 

"Reckon  I'll  have  to,"  she  assented,  with  a  bash- 
ful smile  and  took  a  step  or  two  reluctantly.  But 
she  had  never  seen  folk  dressed  at  all  as  were  these 
visitors  from  the  famed  blue-grass,  and  her  cour- 
age again  faltered.  Instantly  she  realized  how 
wholly  her  own  efforts  to  be  elegant  had  failed. 
She  hung  back  awkwardly,  pathetically. 

"Don't  be  nervous,  Madge;  just  be  yourself," 
Frank  urged  her. 

"Free  and  easy?  Well,  I'll  try;  but  I'm  skeered 
enough  to  make  me  wild  and  reckless." 

Frank  led  her  forward,  while  she  made  a  mighty 
effort  to  accept  the  situation  coolly.  "These  are 
my  friends,  Madge.  Let  me  introduce  you." 

She  got  some  grip  upon  herself  and  smiled. 
"Ain't  no  need.  Know  'em  all  by  your  prescrip- 
tion." With  a  mighty  effort  she  approached  the 
Colonel.  "Colonel  Sandusky  Doolittle,  howdy !" 

The  Colonel  was  delighted.  Her  knowledge  of 
his  name  was  flattering.  He  had  forgotten  her 

188 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


strange  costume  the  moment  his  glance  had  caught 
her  wonderful,  deep  eyes.  "Howdy,  howdy !"  he 
said  heartily,  shaking  her  hand  vigorously.  "Why, 
this  is  real  Kentucky  style !"  It  won't  take  us  long 
to  get  acquainted." 

"Know  all  about  you  now,"  she  said.  "Great 
hossman.  Colonel,  I'll  have  a  race  with  you,  some- 
time." 

"What,  you  ride?"  said  the  delighted  Colonel. 

"Ride!  Dellaw!"  said  she,  wjth,  now,  unembar- 
rassed animation.  The  subject  was  that  one,  of 
all,  which  made  her  most  quickly  forget  everything 
beside.  "Why,  me  and  my  pony  takes  to  racin' 
like  a  pig  to  carrots.  Before  he  lamed  himself, 
whenever  th'  boys  heard  us  clatterin'  down  th' 
mounting,  they  laid  to  race  us  back.  Away  we 
went,  then,  clickity-clip,  upj:h'  hills  and  around  th' 
curves — an'  I  allus  won." 

The  Colonel  realized  with  a  great  joy  that  he 
had  found  a  kindred  spirit.  "Shake  again!"  he  said 
to  her,  after  further  most  congenial  talk,  and  then 
turned  to  Frank.  "My  boy,  you're  right.  She  is 
a  phenomenon — a  thoroughbred,  even  if  she  hasn't 
any  pedigree." 

Up  to  this  time  the  ladies  had  remained  some- 
what in  the  background,  watching  the  young  moun- 
tain girl  as  the  Colonel  drew  her  out. 

Madge  now  turned  to  Frank,  but  looked  at  Bar- 
bara. "Is  that  the  young  lady  from  the  blue- 
grass?"  The  girl  was  hurt  and  really  offended  by 

189 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


the  stranger's  aloof  manner.  "Looks  like  she  can't 
see  common  folks." 

"That  is  Miss  Barbara."  He  led  the  mountain 
girl  toward  her.  "Barbara,  this  is  my  friend — er 
— Madge."  He  was,  himself,  a  little  disconcerted. 

The  maiden  from  the  lowlands  bowed,  but  said 
no  word.  For  an  instant  Madge  shrank  back,  but 
then  she  advanced  with  an  unusual  boldness.  Her 
spirit  was  aroused. 

"Howdy,  Miss  Barbarous,  howdy!"  she  ex- 
claimed and  held  her  hand  out  to  the  handsomely 
dressed  girl. 

But  Miss  Barbara  was  annoyed  by  the  whole  hap- 
pening. She  Itelt  that  this  uncultivated  country 
girl  was  getting  far  too  much  attention.  The 
child's  unconscious  pun  upon  her  name  infuriated 
her.  She  did  not  answer  her,  but  raised  a  lorgnette 
and  stared  at  her. 

Madge  was  ready  with  an  instant  sympathy. 
"Oh,  that's  why  you  couldn't  see,  poor  thing! 
Spectacles  at  your  age!"  Whether  she  really 
thought  this  was  the  case,  not  even  Frank  could 
tell  by  looking  at  her. 

Miss  Holton  was  incensed.  The  haughty  treat- 
ment she  had  planned  to,  give  the  mountain  girl 
had  not  had  the  results  she  had  expected.  "There's 
nothing  whatever  the  matter  with  my  eyes!"  she 
exclaimed  hastily. 

"Wouldn't  think  you'd  need  a  machine  to  help 
you  star-gaze  at  folks,  then,"  said  the  mountain 

190 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


girl.  "But  maybe  it's  the  fashion  in  the  blue- 
grass." 

Frank  hurried  up  with  Holton,  planning  a  diver- 
sion. "This  is  Mr.  Holton,  Madge." 

"Howdy,  sir,"  said  she,  and  then  started  in 
astonishment.  "Ain't  I  seen  your  face  before,  sir?" 

"Wai,  I  reckon  not,"  said  Holton  most  uneasily. 
"I  was  never  hyar  in  these  hyar  mountings  afore." 

She  stepped  closer  to  him,  gazing  straight  at  his 
grey  eyes.  They  seemed  strangely  to  recall  the 
very  distant  past,  she  knew  not  how.  There  were 
other  things  about  him  which  seemed  much  more 
immediately  familiar,  although  his  more  elaborate 
garb  prevented  her,  for  the  moment,  from  recog- 
nizing him  as  the  stranger  with  the  hammer,  who 
had,  that  day  of  the  forest-fire,  been  tap-tapping  on 
the  rocks  upon  her  pasture-land.  "Your  eyes  seem 
to  bring  something  back."  She  plainly  paled.  She 
knew  that  their  suggestion  was  a  dreadful  one,  but 
could  not  make  it  definite. 

Miss  Alathea  noted  her  agitation  instantly,  and 
hurried  to  her  side.  "Poor  child,  what  is  the  mat- 
ter?" 

Madge  had  regained  control  of  her  features, 
which,  for  an  instant,  had  shown  plain  horror. 
"Tain't  nothin',  ma'am.  It  couldn't  be.  It's  all 
over  now."  She  smiled  gratefully  at  Miss  Alathea. 
"An'  you're  his  aunt,  ain't  you  ?  I'd  know  you  for 
his  kin,  anywhere.  Why,  somehow,  you  remind 
me  of  my  lost  mother." 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Thank  you,  my  dear.  You  must  be  very  lonely, 
up  here  all  alone." 

"I  am,  sometimes,"  said  the  girl,  "but  I  have  lots 
of  fun,  too.  The  woods  are  full  of  friends.  Th' 
birds  an'  squirrels  ain't  afraid  o'  me.  They  seem 
to  think  I'm  a  wild  thing,  like  'em." 

"It's  true,"  said  Frank,  with  an  admiring,  cheer- 
ing look  at  the  little  country  girl.  "Their  con- 
fidence in  her  is  wonderful." 

The  bluegrass  girl's  annoyance  was  increasing. 
She  had  come  up  to  the  mountains  thinking  that, 
among  such  crude  surroundings,  her  gowns  and 
the  undoubted  beauty  they  adorned,  would  hold 
the  center  of  the  stage,  and  by  contrast,  hold  Lay- 
son  quite  enthralled;  but  here,  instead,  was  a 
brown-faced  country  maid  in  grotesque,  home- 
made costume,  attracting  most  of  his  attention. 
She  was  conscious  that  by  showing  her  discomfiture 
she  was  not  strengthening  her  own  position,  but 
she  could  not  hide  it,  could  not  curb  her  tongue. 

"A  rider  of  races,"  said  she;  "a  tamer  of  ani- 
mals! What  accomplishments!  Do  you  actually 
live  here,  all  alone?" 

"Come,"  said  Madge,  determined  to  be  pleasant, 
"and  I'll  show  you."  She  led  the  bluegrass  girl 
to  a  convenient  point  from  which  her  cabin  was  in 
sight. 

"In  that  little  hut!"  said  Barbara,  not  impressed 
as  Madge  had  innocently  thought  she  would  be. 
"Shocking!" 

192 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


The  girl  was  angered,  now.  "So  sorry  I  didn't 
have  your  opinion  afore!  But,  maybe,  you 
wouldn't  think  it  were  so  awful,  if  you  knowed 
how  'twere  I  come  to  live  there." 

Frank  had  written  something  of  the  poor  girl's 
tragic  story  to  his  aunt.  She  was  all  interest. 
"Won't  you  tell  us,  please?"  she  asked. 

Holton  seemed  to  show  a  strange  disinclination 
to  listen  to  the  narrative.  "Ain't  got  no  time  for 
stories,"  he  objected.  "Gettin'  late." 

"We'll  take  time,  then,"  said  Frank. 

"Go  on,  little  one,"  urged  Colonel  Doolittle. 
"We're  listening." 

Impressed  and  touched  by  the  sympathy  in  the 
horseman's  tone  and  the  interest  in  Miss  Alathea's 
eyes,  Madge  told  with  even  greater  force  and  more 
effect  than  when  she  had  related  it  to  Layson  the 
story  of  the  tragedy  which  had  robbed  her  at  a 
blow  of  father  and  of  mother,  the  black,  dreadful 
tale  of  merciless  assassination  which  had  left  her 
orphaned  in  the  mountains.  Her  audience  at- 
tended, spell-bound,  even  the  disgruntled  and  un- 
sympathetic Barbara  listening  with  unwilling  fasci- 
nation. Only  Holton  turned  away,  with  a  gesture 
of  impatience.  He  plainly  did  not  wish  to  waste 
time  on  the  girl.  Or  was  it  that?  He  seemed  to 
be  uneasy  as  he  walked  to  and  fro  upon  the  rock- 
ledge  near  them,  whence,  had  he  cared  for  it,  he 
could  have  had  a  gorgeous  view  of  mountain  scen- 
ery. But,  although  he  said,  as  plainly  as  he  could 

193 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


without  actual  rudeness,  that  the  girl  and  her  sad 
tale  of  tragedy  were  not  worth  attention,  he  was 
not  successful  in  his  efforts  wholly  to  refuse  to  lis- 
ten to  her. 

"Infamous!"  said  Miss  Alathea,  when  the  child 
had  finished. 

"And  that  scoundrel  has  gone  free!"  exclaimed 
the  Colonel,  in  disgust. 

"That's  how  I  come  to  live  alone,  here,"  Madge 
went  on,  addressing  Barbara,  particularly.  The 
girl  had  made  her  feel  it  necessary  to  offer  some 
defense.  "After  my  mammy  died  I  didn't  have  no 
place  to  go,  an'  so  I  just  stayed  on  here,  an'  th' 
bridge  my  daddy  built  for  his  protection  I  have 
kept  for  mine.  Maybe  he  has  told  you  of  it."  She 
indicated  Frank.  They  nodded. 

"And  nothing  has  been  heard  of  the  infernal 
traitor,  all  these  years?"  the  Colonel  asked. 

"He  left  the  mountings  when  he  found  how  folks 
was  feelin' — they'd  have  shot  him,  like  a  dog,  on 
sight.  But  it  don't  make  no  differ  where  he  goes ; 
it  don't  make  a  bit  of  differ  where  he  goes." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  the  Colonel  asked, 
and  as  he  spoke,  Holton,  suddenly  intent,  paused  in 
his  pacing  of  the  ledge  to  listen. 

"I  mean,  no  matter  where  he  goes  he'll  have  to 
pay  for  it,  come  soon,  come  late.  Th'  day  air  sure 
to  come  when  Joe,  Ben  Lorey's  son,  '11  meet  him 
face  to  face  an'  make  him  answer  for  his  crime!" 


194 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"God-speed  to  him!''  exclaimed  the  Colonel,  fer- 
vently. 

Madge,  in  a  gesture  full  of  drama,  although 
quite  unconscious,  raised  her  head,  looking  off  into 
the  vastness  of  the'  mountains,  her  hands  thrust 
straight  down  at  her  sides  and  clenched,  her  shoul- 
ders squared,  her  chest  heaving  with  a  mighty  in- 
take. The  little  mountain-girl,  as  she  stood  there, 
thrilling  with  her  longing  for  revenge,  with  pray- 
ers that  some  day  the  sinner  might  be  punished  for 
his  dreadful  crime,  made  an  impressive  figure. 

"Come  soon  or  late!"  she  sighed.  "Come  soon 
or  late!" 

The  party  watched  her,  fascinated,  till  Holton 
took  his  daughter's  arm  and  urged  her,  uneasily, 
out  of  the  little  group. 

Later  Madge  asked  the  Colonel  to  go  with  her 
to  the  pasture  lot  and  take  a  look  at  Little  Hawss. 
Gladly  he  went  with  her,  tenderly  this  expert  in 
Kentucky  racers,  the  finest  horses  in  the  world,  ex- 
amined the  shaggy  little  pony's  hoof.  He  told 
Madge  what  to  do  for  him  and  promised  to  send 
up  a  lotion  with  which  to  bathe  the  injured  foot, 
although  he  gently  warned  her  that  she  must  not 
hope  that  Little  Hawss  would  ever  do  much  racing 
up  and  down  the  mountain  trails  again.  She 
choked,  when  he  said  this,  and  the  horseman's  heart 
went  out  to  her. 

"Little  one,"  said  the  Colonel,  as  the  party  was 
preparing  to  go  down  the  mountain,  "you're  a 

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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


thoroughbred,  and  Colonel  Sandusky  Doolittle  is 
your  friend  from  the  word  'go.' '  He  took  her 
hand  in  his  and  smiled  down  into  her  eyes. 

Then,  turning  to  Miss  'Lethe:  "Do  you  know, 
Miss  'Lethe,  there's  something  about  this  little  girl 
that  puts  me  in  mind  of  you,  when  I  first  met  you? 
You  remember?" 

"Ah,  Colonel,  that  was  twenty  years  ago — the 
day  I  was  eighteen." 

"And  I  was  twenty-five.  Now  I'm  forty-five  and 
you " 

"Colonel!" 

"Are  still  eighteen.'  He  bowed,  impressively, 
with  that  charming,  gallant  smile  which  was  pe- 
culiar to  him. 

"Aren't  you  going  down  with  us,  Frank?"  asked 
Barbara,  looking  at  the  youth  with  plain  surprise 
when  she  noted  that  he  lingered  when  she  and  her 
father  were  ready  for  the  start. 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  Madge,  a  moment.  I'll  over- 
take you." 

The  bluegrass  beauty  looked  at  him,  wrath  blaz- 
ing in  her  eyes,  then  turned  away  with  tossing 
head. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Madge,  and  held  her  hand  out 
to  her. 

Barbara  paid  no  attention  to  the  small,  brown 
hand,  but,  instead,  opened  her  parasol  almost  in 
the  face  of  the  astonished  mountain-girl,  who 


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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


jumped  back,  startled.  "Oh,  very  well,"  said  Bar- 
bara to  Frank. 

Madge  turned  to  him,  the  softness  of  the  mood 
engendered  by  her  talk  with  the  Colonel  and  Miss 
'Lethe  all  gone,  now.  Her  face  was  flushed  with 
anger.  "Dellaw!"  said  she.  "Thought  she  was 
goin'  to  shoot!" 

Now  Barbara  spoke  haughtily.  "Good  after- 
noon, Miss  Madge.  You  have  entertained  us  won- 
derfully, wonderfully." 


CHAPTER  X 

It  was  late  on  an  afternoon  several  days  after 
the  party  from  the  bluegrass  had  gone  down  from 
the  mountains  when  Layson,  with  a  letter  of  great 
import  in  his  pocket  sought  Madge  Brierly. 

He  was  very  happy,  as,  a  short  time  before  he 
reached  her  isolated  cabin,  he  stepped  out  to  the 
edge  of  that  same  ledge  where  Horace  Holton 
had  found  the  view  too  full  of  memories  for  com- 
fort, to  look  off  across  the  lovely  valley  spread  be- 
fore, below  him.  There  were  no  memories  of 
struggle  and  bloodshed  to  arise  between  him  and 
that  view  and  for  a  time  he  gloried  in  it  with  that 
bounding,  pulsating  appreciation  which  can  come 
to  us  in  youth  alone,  as  his  eyes  swept  the  fair 
prospect  of  wooded  slope  and  rugged  headland, 
stream-ribbon,  mountain-meadow,  billowy  forest. 
Then,  with  a  deep  breath  of  the  wondrous  air  of 
the  old  Cumberlands,  which  added  a  physical  ex- 
hileration  almost  intoxicating  to  the  pleasure  of  the 
thoughts  which  filled  his  mind,  he  went  slowly  up 
the  rugged  twisting  path  to  Madge's  cabin.  There, 

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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


standing-  by  the  bridge  he  called,  and,  presently,  the 
girl  appeared. 

He  smiled  at  her.  He  did  not  wish  to  tell  her, 
too  quickly,  of  the  news  the  letter  held. 

The  girl  was  still  full  of  the  visit  and  the  visi- 
tors. They  had  seemed  to  her,  reared  as  she  had 
been  in  the  rough  seclusion  of  the  mountains,  like 
denizens  of  another,  wondrotisly  fine  world,  come 
to  glimpse  her  in  her  crude  one,  for  a  few  hours, 
and  then  gone  back  to  their  own  glorious  abiding 
place. 

She  did  not  admit  it  to  herself,  but  they  had  left 
behind  them  discontent  with  the  life  she  knew,  her 
lack  of  education,  almost  everything  with  which, 
in  days  gone  by,  she  had  been  so  satisfied. 

Layson,  watching  her  as  she  approached,  was 
tempted  to  enjoy  her  as  she  was,  for  a  few  min- 
utes, before  telling  her  the  news  which,  young  and 
inexperienced  as  he  was,  he  yet  knew,  instinctively, 
would  change  her  for  all  time. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "how  did  you  like  them, 
Madge?" 

The  girl  sat  upon  a  stump  and  looked  off  across 
the  valley.  Her  hands  were  clasped  upon  one  knee, 
'as  she  reflected,  the  fading  sunlight  touched  her 
hair  with  sheening  brilliance,  her  eyes,  at  first,  were 
dreamy,  happy. 

"Oh,  I  loved  your  aunt !"  said  she.  "She  made 
me  think  of  my  own  mammy.  .  .  .  She  made 
me  think  of  my  own  mammy." 

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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Arid  she  was  quite  as  much  in  love  with  you." 

"Was  she?  .  .  .  And  Gunnel  Doolittle! 
Ain't  he  splendid?  And  how  he  do  know  hosses! 
Wouldn't  I  love  to  see  some  of  them  races  that  he 
told  about?  Wouldn't  I  love  to  have  a  chance  to 
learn  how  to  become  a  lady  like  your  aunt?  She's 
just  the  sweetest  thing  that  ever  lived." 

"And  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  Miss  Barbara?"  said 
Layson,  with  a  little  mischief  in  his  wrinkling  eye- 
lids. 

The  girl  shrugged  herself  together  haughtily 
upon  her  stump.  He  had  seen  lowlands  girls  use 
almost  the  same  gesture  when,  in  drawing-rooms, 
some  topic  had  come  up  which  they  did  not  wish 
to  talk  about. 

"Huh!  Her!"  said  Madge  and  would  have 
changed  the  subject  had  he  let  her. 

"Really?"  he  asked,  wickedly.  "Didn't  you  like 
her?" 

"I  ain't  sayin'  much,"  said  Madge,  "because  she's 
different  from  me,  has  had  more  chance,  is  better 
dressed,  knows  more  from  books  an'  so  on,  an'  it 
might  seem  like  I  was  plumb  jealous  of  her. 
Maybe  I  am,  too.  But,  dellaw!  Her  with  her 
pollysol!  When  she  opened  it  that  way  at  me  I 
thought  it  war  a  gun  an'  she  war  goin'  to  fire! 
Maybe  I  ain't  had  no  learnin'  in  politeness,  but  it 
seems  to  me  I  would  a  been  a  little  more  so,  just 
the  same,  if  I'd  been  in  her  place.  She  don't  like 


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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


me,  she  don't,  an'  I — why,  I  just  hates  her!  Her 
with  her  ombril  up,  an'  not  a  cloud  in  sight!" 

Layson  looked  at  her  and  laughed.  The  letter 
in  his  pocket  made  it  seem  probable  that  she  would 
not  need,  in  future,  to  submit  to  such  humiliations 
as  the  blue-grass  girl  had  put  upon  her,  so  his  mer- 
riment could  not  be  counted  cruel. 

"Jealous  of  her?"  he  inquired,  quizzically. 

She  sat  in  deep  thought  for  a  moment  and  then 
frankly  said :  "I  reckon  so ;  a  leetle,  teeny  mite. 
Maybe  it  has  made  me  mean  in  thinkin'  of  her,  ever 
since." 

"You're  honest,  anyway,"  said  he,  "and  I  shall 
tell  you  something  that  will  comfort  you.  She  was 
as  jealous  of  you  as  you  were  of  her." 

"She  was!"  the  girl  exclaimed,  incredulous,  sur- 
prised. "Of  me?"  You're  crazy,  ain't  you?" 

"Not  a  bit." 

"What  have  /  got  to  make  her  jealous?" 

"A  lot  of  things.  You've  beauty  such  as  hers 
will  never  be " 

"Dellaw!"  said  Madge,  incredulously.  She  had 
no  knowledge  of  her  own  attractiveness.  "Don't 
you  start  in  makin'  fun  o'  me." 

"I'm  not  making  fun  of  you.  You're  very  beau- 
tiful— my  aunt  said  so,  the  Colonel  said  so,  and 
I've  known  it,  all  along." 

No  one  had  ever  said  a  thing  like  this  to  her, 
before.  She  looked  keenly  at  him,  weighing  his 
sincerity.  When  she  finally  decided  that  he  really 

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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


meant  what  he  had  said,  she  breathed  a  long  sigh 
of  delight. 

"They  said  that  I — was  beautiful!" 

"They  did,  and,  little  girl,  you  are ;  and  you  have 
more  than  beauty.  You  have  health  and  strength 
such  as  a  bluegrass  girl  has  never  had  in  all  the 
history  of  women." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  she,  "I'm  strong  an'  well — but 
—but " 

"But  what?" 

"But  what?"  she  quoted  bitterly.  "But  I  ain't 
got  no  eddication.  What  does  strength  and  what 
does  what  you  tell  me  is  my  beauty  count,  when  I 
ain't  got  no  eddication?  Why — why — I  looked 
plumb  foolish  by  the  side  of  her!  You  think  I 
don't  know  that  my  talk  sounds  rough  as  rocks 
alongside  hers,  ripplin'  from  her  lips  as  smooth  as 
water?  You  think  I  don't  know  that  I  looked 
like  a  scare-crow  in  all  them  clo'es  I  had  fixed  up 
so  careful,  when  she  come  on  with  her  gowns 
made  up  for  her  by  dressmakers?  Why — why — I 
never  see  a  dressmaker  in  all  my  life!  I  never 
even  see  one!" 

"Well,"  said  he,  and  looked  at  her  with  a  slow 
smile,  "there  probably  will  be  no  reason  why  you 
may  not  see  as  many  as  you  like,  in  years  to  come." 

She  was  amazed.    "This  some  sort  o'  joke?" 

"No,  Madge.    How  would  you  like  to  be  rich  ?" 

"Me?  .  .  .  Rich?  Oh  ...  oh,  I'd  like 
it  Then  I  could  go  down  in  th'  bluegrass,  study, 

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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


1'arn,  an' — I  could  do  a  heap  o'  good  aroun'  hyar, 
too"  She  sighed.  "But  thar  never  was  nobody 
rich  in  these  hyar  mountings  an'  I  reckon  thar 
never  will  be." 

"Perhaps  you  may  be,"  said  the  youth,  and  there 
was  a  serious  quality  in  his  voice  which  made  her 
start  and  then  lean  forward  on  her  stump  to  gaze 
at  him  with  searching,  eager  eyes. 

"Your  land  down  in  the  valley,"  he  went  on, 
"mny  contain  coal  and  iron  enough  to  give  you  a 
fortune.  Now  there  are  bad  men  in  this  world, 
and  I  want  you  to  promise  me  to  sell  it  to  nobody 
without  first  coming  to  me  for  advice." 

"Promise?"  said  the  girl,  the  wonder  all  ashine 
in  her  big  eyes.  "In  course  I'll  promise  that.  But 
is  there  r'ally  a  chance  of  it?" 

"There  really  is." 

"Oh,  if  I  only  knovved,  for  shore!  Seems  like 
I  couldn't  wait!" 

"You  shall  know,  to-night,  or,  maybe,  sooner.  I 
have  the  engineers  report,  but  I  must  study  it  out 
carefully  and  make  sure  what  boundaries  he  means. 
I'm  almost  certain  they  include  your  land.  As  soon 
as  I  find  out  I'll  come  back  here  and  call  to  you 
and  let  you  know." 

"I  reckon  you  won't  have  to  call !  I'll  be  watch- 
in'  for  you  every  minute." 

"Well,  I'm  off.  But  remember  what  I  said  about 
letting  anyone  buy  any  of  your  land  from  you. 


203 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Don't  sell  an  inch,  don't  give  an  option  at  whatever 
price,  to  anyone  without  consulting  me." 

When  he  had  left,  the  girl  still  sat  there,  dream- 
ing on  her  stump  after  she  had  watched  him  out  of 
sight. 

The  news  that  she  might  become  rich  had  stirred 
her  deeply  for  a  moment,  but,  soon  she  wondered 
if  riches,  really,  would  mean  everything,  and  de- 
cided that  they  would  not. 

"Somehow,"  she  mused,  "somehow  I  don't  care 
much  about  it,  not  unless — unless — oh,  I  can't  think 
of  nothin'  in  th'  world  but  him!  An'  he  says  he's 
goin'  to  go  away,  never  to  return  no  more !  .  .  . 
Other  folks  has  gone  away,  afore,  but  it  didn't 
seem  to  hurt  my  heart  like  this.  I  wonder  what  is 
ailin'  me." 

Her  thought  turned  back  to  that  half-bitter,  half- 
delightful  moment  when  he  had  tried  to  kiss  her 
at  the  bridge.  "Why,  even  then,"  she  mused,  "thar 
were  somethin'  seemed  to  draw  me  to  him  in  spite 
o'  myself.  Never  felt  anythin'  like  it  afore.  It 
war — just  as  if  I  war  asleep,  all  over,  an'  never 
wanted  to  wake  up!  I  wonder  if  I  wish  he  warn't 
comin'  back,  to-night — not  half  so  much,  I  reckon, 
as  I  wish  he  warn't  never  goin'  away !" 

She  left  her  resting  place  upon  the  stump,  and, 
torn  by  varying  emotions,  found  a  place  upon  the 
trail  where  she  could  look  off  to  his  camp.  She 
was  standing  there,  leaning  listlessly  against  a  tree, 


204 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


when  the  sound  of  someone  coming  made  her  turn 
her  head.  She  saw  Joe  Lorey. 

"Madge,"  said  he,  approaching,  "I  wants  a  word 
with  you." 

She  did  not  wish  to  talk  with  him.  Her  mind 
was  far  too  busy  with  its  thoughts  of  Layson,  its 
dismay  at  the  prospect  of  his  departure.  "No  time, 
Joe;  it's  too  late,"  said  she.  She  started  to  go  by 
him  toward  her  little  bridge. 

But  he  was  not  inclined  to  be  put  off.  The 
mountaineer's  slow  mind  had  been  at  work  with 
his  great  problem  and  he  had  quite  determined  that 
he  would  take  some  action,  definite  and  unmistak- 
able, without  delay.  He  had  leaned  his  ever-pres- 
ent rifle  up  against  a  stump,  had  laid  the  old  game- 
sack,  still  burdened  with  the  stolen  dynamite,  upon 
the  ground,  close  to  it,  and  was  prepared  to  talk 
the  matter  out,  to  one  end  or  the  other.  He  loved 
her  with  the  fierce  love  of  the  primitive  man;  his 
rising  wrath  against  the  circumstances  amidst 
which  he  seemed  to  be  so  powerless  had  made  him 
sullen  and  suspicious;  mountain  life,  continual  de- 
fiance of  the  law,  unceasing  watchfulness  for 
"revenuers,"  does  not  teach  a  man  to  be  smooth- 
mannered,  half-way  in  his  methods.  He  made  a 
move  as  if  to  catch  her  arm;  she  darted  by  him, 
running  straight  toward  the  old  game-sack. 

That  burden  in  the  game-sack  had  been  a  con- 
stant horror  to  him  ever  since  he  had  first  stolen 
it  down  at  the  railroad  workings.  The  mighty 

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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


evidence  of  the  power  of  the  explosive  which  had 
been  shown  to  him  when  it  had  torn  and  mangled 
its  poor  victim  there,  had  filled  him  with  a  terror 
of  it,  although  it  had  also  filled  him  with  determi- 
nation to  make  use  of  that  great  power  if  neces- 
sary. But  now,  as  he  saw  her  running,  light- 
footed,  lovely,  toward  the  bag  which  held  it,  run- 
ning  in  exactly  the  right  way  to  stumble  on  it  if  a 
mis-step  chanced,  his  heart  sprang  to  his  throat. 
What  if  the  dire  explosive  he  had  planned  to  use 
upon  his  enemies  should  prove  to  be  the  death  of 
the  one  being  whom  he  loved  ?  He  sprang  toward 
her  with  the  mighty  impulse  of  desperate  muscles 
spurred  by  a  panic-stricken  mind  and  caught  her, 
roughly,  just  before  her  foot  would  have  touched 
and  spurned  the  game-sack. 

"Stop!"  he  cried,  in  desperation. 

She  was  amazed  that  he  should  take  so  great  a 
liberty.  She  stopped,  perforce,  but,  after  she  had 
stopped,  she  stood  there  trembling  with  hot  anger. 
"Joe  Lorey,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  dare !" 

Now  he  was  all  humility  as  he  let  his  hand  fall 
from  her  arm.  "It  was  for  your  sake,  Madge," 
said  he.  "A  stumble  on  that  sack — it  mout  have 
sent  us  both  to  Kingdom  Come!" 

She  looked  at  him  incredulously,  then  down  at 
the  sack.  "That  old  game-sack  ?  Why,  Joe,  you're 
plumb  distracted!" 

"I'm  in  my  senses,  yet,  I  tell  you,"  he  persisted. 
"T'other  day  I  went  down  where  they're  blastin' 

206 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


for  th'  railroad.  I  see  'em  usin'  dynamighty,  down 
thar,  an'  I  watched  my  chance  an',  when  it  come, 
I  slipped  one  o'  th'  bombs  into  that  game-sack.  Ef 
you'd  chanced  to  kick  it " 

She  was  impressed.  "Dynamighty  bombs?  Del- 
law!  What's  dynamighty  bombs?" 

"It's  a  giant  powder,  a  million  times  stronger 
nor  mine."  He  reached  into  the  sack  and,  with 
cautious  fingers,  took  out  the  cartridge  and  the 
fuse,  exhibiting  them  to  her.  "See  here.  I  seed 
'em  take  a  bomb  no  bigger  nor  this  one,  an'  light  a 
fuse  like  this,  an'  when  it  caught  it  ennymost  shook 
down  a  mounting!  I  seed  a  poor  chap  what  war 
careless  with  one,  an'  when  they  picked  him  up, 

Why " 

"Don't,  Joe!"  said  the  girl,  looking  at  the  car- 
tridge with  the  light  of  horror  shining  in  her  eyes. 
"What  you  doin'  with  such  devil's  stuff?" 

"I  got  it  for  th'  revenuers,"  he  said  frankly. 
The  mountaineers  of  the  old  Cumberland,  to  this 
day,  make  no  secret  of  their  deadly  hatred  for  the 
agents  of  the  government  excise.  "They're  snoop- 
in'  'round  th'  mountings,  an'  if  they  find  my  still 
I  plan  to  blow  it  into  nothin',  an'  them  with  it." 

She  recoiled  from  him.  "No,  no,  Joe;  you'd 
better  gin  th'  still  up,  nor  do  such  work  as  that!" 

"I'll  never  gin  it  up!"  said  he,  with  a  set  face. 
"It's  mine;  it  war  my  father's  long  before  me. 
There's  only  one  thing  could  ever  make  me  gin 
it  up." 

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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"What's  that?"  The  girl  was  still  spell-bound 
by  the  fascination  of  the  dynamite  which  she  had 
come  so  near  to  treading  on.  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  cartridge  in  his  hand  with  horror,  won- 
der. 

He  stepped  closer  to  her.  "I  mout  gin  it  up  for 
you!" 

"For  me?" 

"You  know  I've  loved  ye  sence  ye  were  that 
high,"  said  he,  and  measured  with  his  hand  a  very 
little  way  up  the  side  of  the  old  stump.  "Many 
a  time  I've  listened  hyar  to  your  evenin'  hymn,  an' 
thought  I'd  rather  hear  you  singin'  in  my  home 
than  hear  th'  angels  singin'  in  th'  courts  o'  Heaven. 
Say  th'  word,  Madge — say  you'll  be  my  little 
wife!" 

The  girl  was  wofully  affected.  Her  eyes  filled 
and  her  bosom  heaved  with  feeling.  It  cut  her 
to  the  soul  to  have  to  hurt  this  playmate  of  her 
babyhood,  defender  of  her  youth,  companion  of 
her  budding  womanhood;  their  lives  had  been 
linked,  too,  by  the  great  tragedy  which,  years  ago, 
had  orphaned  both  of  them.  But,  of  late,  she  had 
felt  sure  that  she  could  never  marry  him.  She 
would  not  admit,  even  to  herself,  just  why  this 
was;  but  it  was  so.  "No,  no,  Joe;  it  can  never 
be,"  she  said. 

He  knew!  "And  why?"  said  he,  his  face  black- 
ening with  bitter  feeling,  his  brows  contracting 


208 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


fiercely.      "Because   that   furriner   from  the   blue?, 
grass  has  come  atween  us!" 

Madge,  surprised  that  he  should  guess  the  secret 
which  she  had  scarcely  admitted,  even  to  herself, 
was,  for  a  second,  frightened  by  his  keenness.  Had 
she  shown  her  feelings  with  such  freedom?  But 
she  quickly  regained  self-control  and  answered  with 
a  clever  counterfeit  of  lightness.  "Him?  Oh,  sho! 
He'd  never  think  o'  me  that  way!" 

"Mebbe  so,"  said  Joe,  "but  I  know  you  think 
more  o'  th'  books  he  teaches  you  from  than  o'  my 
company.  From  th'  thickets  borderin'  th'  clearin' 
where  you've  studied,  I've  watched  you  settin'  thar 
with  him,  wen  I'd  give  th'  world  to  be  thar  in  his 
place.  Why,  I'd  ennymost  gin  up  my  life  for  one 
kiss,  Madge!"  He  looked  at  her  with  pitiful  love 
and  longing  in  his  eyes ;  but  this  soon  changed  to  a 
sort  of  mad  determination.  "I'll  have  it,  too!"  he 
cried,  advancing  toward  her. 

She  was  amazed,  not  in  the  least  dismayed.  In- 
deed the  episode  took  from  the  moment  some  of  its 
emotional  strain.  That  he  should  try  to  do  this 
utterly  unwarrantable  thing  took  a  portion  of  the 
weight  of  guilty  feeling  from  her  heart.  It  had 
been  pressing  heavily  there.  "You  shan't!"  she 
cried.  "Careful,  Joe  Lorey!" 

She  eluded  him  with  ease  and  ran  across  her 
little  bridge.  He  paused,  a  second,  in  astonish- 
ment, and,  as  he  paused,  she  grasped  the  rope  and 
pulled  the  little  draw  up  after  her. 

209 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Look  out,  Joe;  it  air  a  hundred  feet,  straight 
down !"  she  cried,  as  she  saw  that  the  baffled  moun- 
taineer was  trembling  on  the  chasm's  edge,  as  if 
preparing  for  a  spring.  "Good  night,  Joe.  Take 
my  advice — gin  up  th'  still,  an'  all  thought  of 
makin'  a  wife  of  a  girl  as  ain't  willin'." 

Half  laughing  and  half  crying  she  ran  up  the 
path  which  wound  about  among  the  thickets  on  the 
rocky  little  island  where  her  rough  cabin  stood,  se- 
cure, secluded. 

The  mountaineer  stood,  baffled,  on  the  brink  of 
the  ravine.  Much  loneliness  among  the  mountains, 
where  there  was  no  voice  but  his  own  to  listen  to, 
had  given  him  the  habit  of  talking  to  himself  in 
moments  of  excitement. 

"Gone!  Gone!"  he  said.  "Gone  laughin'  at 
me !"  He  clenched  his  fists.  "And  it  is  him  as  has 
come  atween  us!"  He  turned  slowly  from  the 
place,  picked  up  his  rifle,  slung  the  game-sack,  sag- 
gin  with  the  weight  of  the  dynamite,  across  his 
shoulder  by  its  strap,  and  started  from  the  place. 

He  had  gone  but  a  short  distance,  though,  be- 
fore he  stopped,  considering.  Murder  was  in  Joe 
Lorey's  heart. 

"She  said  he  war  comin'  back,"  he  sullemy  re- 
flected. I'll  .  .  .  lay  for  him,  right  hyar." 

He  looked  cautiously  about.  His  quick  ear 
caught  the  sound  of  footsteps  coming  up  the  trail. 

"Somebody's  stirrin',  now,"  he  said.  "Oh,  if  it's 
only  him!" 

210 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


He  slipped  behind  a  rock  to  wait  in  ambush. 

But  it  was  not  his  enemy  who  came,  now,  along 
the  trail.  Horace  Holton,  held  to  the  mountains 
by  his  mysterious  business,  had  left  the  others  of 
the  party  to  go  home  alone,  as  they  had  come,  and 
returned  to  the  neighborhood  which  housed  the 
girl  who  owned  the  land  he  coveted. 

Joe,  suspicious  of  him,  as  the  mountaineer  who 
makes  his  living  as  a  moonshiner,  is,  of  course,  of 
every  stranger  who  appears  within  his  mountains, 
stepped  forward,  suddenly,  his  rifle  in  his  hand 
and  ready  to  be  used.  He  had  no  idea  that  the 
man  had  been  a  member  of  the  party  from  the  blue- 
grass. 

"Halt,  you!"  he  cried. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Holton,  full  of  scheming,  was  returning  up  the 
trail  after  having  said  good-bye  to  Barbara,  Miss 
Alathea  and  the  Colonel  at  the  railway  in  the  val- 
ley, climbing  steadily  and  skillfully,  without  much 
thought  of  his  surroundings.  The  locality,  familiar 
to  him  years  before  (although  he  had  at  great  pains 
indicated  to  everyone  but  Barbara  that  it  was 
wholly  strange  to  him)  showed  but  superficial 
change  to  his  searching,  reminiscent  eyes.  His  feet 
had  quickly  fallen  into  the  almost  automatic  climb- 
ing-stride of  the  born  mountaineer,  and  his 
thoughts  had  gradually  absorbed  themselves  in 
memories  of  the  past.  Joe  Lorey's  sudden  com- 
mand to  halt  was  somewhat  startling,  therefore, 
even  to  his  iron  nerves.  Instinctively  and  instantly 
he  heeded  the  gruff  order. 

Dusk  was  falling  and  he  could  not  very  clearly 
see  the  moonshiner,  at  first,  as  he  stepped  from 
behind  the  shelter  of  his  rock.  He  moved  slowly 
on,  a  step  or  two,  hands  half  raised  to  show  that 
they  did  not  hold  weapons,  recovering  quickly  from 

212 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


the  little  shock  of  the  surprise,  planning  an  ex- 
planation to  whatever  mountaineer  had  thought  his 
coming  up  the  trail  at  that  hour  a  suspicious  cir- 
cumstance. That  he  was  one  of  Lay  son's  friends 
from  the  low-country  would,  he  thought,  be  proof 
enough  that  he  was  not  an  enemy  of  mountain- 
folk.  Layson,  he  knew,  was  generally  regarded 
with  good  will  by  the  shy  dwellers  in  this  wilder- 
ness. 

But  when  he  clearly  saw  Joe  Lorey's  face  a 
thrill  shot  through  him  far  more  lasting  than  the 
little  tremor  born,  at  first,  of  the  command  to  halt. 

He  had  not  seen  the  youth  before.  Joe,  half 
jealous,  half  contemptuous,  of  Layson's  fine  friends 
from  the  bluegrass,  had  kept  out  of  their  sight,  al- 
though he  had  watched  them  furtively  from  covert 
almost  constantly;  and,  it  chanced,  had  not  been 
so  much  as  mentioned  by  either  Frank  or  Madge 
while  the  party  from  the  bluegrass  lingered  at  the 
camp,  save  when  Madge  told  the  tragic  story  of 
her  childhood  while  Holton  stood  aloof,  for  reasons 
of  his  own,  hearing  but  imperfectly. 

Now  the  unexpected  sight  of  the  young  man,  for 
some  reasons,  made  the  old  one  gasp  in  horror. 
There  was  that  about  the  face,  the  attitude,  the 
very  way  the  lithe  moonshiner  held  his  gun,  which 
made  him  seem,  to  the  astonished  man  whom  he 
had  halted,  like  a  grim  vision  from  the  past.  "My 
God!"  he  thought.  "Can  the  dead  have  come  to 
life?" 

213 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


For  an  instant  he  went  weak.  His  blood  chilled 
and  the  quick  beating  of  his  heart  changed  the  deep 
breathing  of  his  recent  swinging  stride  into  short, 
sharp  gasps. 

It  was  only  for  an  instant,  though.  His  life  had 
not  been  one  to  teach  him  to  falter  long  in  the  face 
of  an  emergency.  Quickly  he  regained  poise  and 
reasoned  calmly. 

"No,"  he  thought,  "it's  Joe,  Ben  Lorey's  son. 
Th'  father's  layin'  where  he  has  been,  all  these 
years.  I'm  skeery  as  a  girl." 

Joe  advanced  upon  him  truculently.  "Say,"  he 
demanded,  "what's  yer  name  an'  what  ye  want 
here?"  His  ever  ready  rifle  nested  in  the  crook 
of  his  left  arm,  his  brow  was  threatening,  his 
mouth  was  firmly  set  an  instant  after  he  had 
spoken. 

Holton,  recovering  himself  quickly,  spoke 
calmly,  propitiatingly.  "My  name's  Holton.  I 
want  to  see  th'  gal  as  lives  up  yander.  Want  to 
buy  her  land  of  her." 

Lorey,  satisfied  by  this  explanation  that  the 
stranger  was  not  a  government  agent,  as  he  had,  at 
first  suspected,  relaxed  his  tense  rigidity  of  mus- 
cles. From  fear  of  revenuers  his  disturbed  mind 
returned  quickly  to  the  bitterness  of  his  resent- 
ment of  what  he  thought  Madge  Brierly's  infatua- 
tion for  the  young  lowlander. 

"It's  too  late,"  he  said.     "Thar's  only  one  man 


214 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


as  she'd  let  down  that  bridge  for,  now — th'  man 
I  thought  ye  might  be — Frank  Layson." 

Holton,  quick  to  see  the  possibility  of  gaining 
an  advantage,  realizing  from  the  young  man's  tone 
that  he  was  certainly  no  friend  of  Layson's,  guess- 
ing, with  quick  cunning,  at  what  the  situation  was, 
decided  that  the  thing  for  him  to  do  was  to  reveal 
the  fact  that,  in  his  heart,  he,  also,  hated  Layson. 

"So  ye  took  me  for  a  revenuer  or  Frank  Layson, 
eh?"  said  he.  "I  know  what  th'  mountings  think 
o'  revenuers,  an'  I  reckon,  from  yer  handlin'  o'  that 
rifle,  that  you're  no  friend  o'  Layson's." 

Joe,  full  of  the  fierce  bitterness  of  his  resent- 
ment, was  ready  to  confide  in  anyone  his  hatred 
of  the  "furriner"  who  had  come  up  and  won  the 
girl  he  loved.  He  let  the  barrel  of  his  rifle  slip  be- 
tween his  fingers  till  its  stock  was  resting  on  the 
ground. 

"I  hates  him  as  I  hates  but  one  man  in  th' 
world !"  he  said,  with  bitter  emphasis. 

"Who's  that?"  said  Holton,  thoughtlessly,  al- 
though, an  instant  afterward,  he  was  sorry  that  he 
had  pursued  the  subject. 

"Lem  Lindsay,"  Lorey  answered ;  "him  as  killed 
my  father.  Frank  Layson's  come  between  me  an' 
Madge  Brierly,  an'  he's  got  to  cl'ar  my  tracks!" 
His  voice  thrilled  with  the  intensity  of  his  emotion, 
and,  suddenly,  he  caught  his  rifle  up,  again,  into 
his  crooked  elbow,  where  it  rested  ready  for  quick 
usage.  "If  you  plans  to  warn  him "  he  began. 

215 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Warn  him!"  said  the  older  man,  with  a  bitter- 
ness, real  or  counterfeited,  whichever  it  might  be, 
as  fierce  as  that  which  rang  in  the  young  moon- 
shiner's own  voice,  "I  hate  him  as  much  as  you. 
I'd  rather  warn  you." 

"Warn  me  o'  what?"  Lorey  had  begun  to  lose 
suspicion  of  the  stranger.  If,  really,  he  hated  Lay- 
son,  he  might  make  of  him  a  useful  ally. 

"Your  name's  Lorey,"  Holton  answered,  with 
his  keen  eyes  fixed  intently  on  those  of  the  man 
who  stood  there,  tensely  listening  to  him,  "an'  yo' 
keep  a  still." 

Now  Lorey  again  caught  his  rifle  quickly  in  both 
hands;  his  face  showed  new  apprehension,  and  a 
terrible  determination,  desperate  and  dreadful.  If 
this  stranger  knew  about  the  still,  was  it  not  cer- 
tain that  he  was  a  government  spy  and  therefore 
worthy  of  quick  death? 

"Keerful!"  he  said  menacingly.  "Hyar  in  th' 
mountings  that  word's  worth  your  life!"  The 
youth,  with  frowning  brow  and  glittering,  wolfish 
eyes,  stood  facing  Holton  like  an  animal  at  bay, 
with  what  amounted  to  a  threat  of  murder  on  his 
lips. 

"I'm  speakin'  it  for  your  own  good,"  the  old 
man  answered,  throwing  into  his  voice  as  much  of 
frankness  as  he  could  command.  "I  tell  you  that 
th'  revemooers  have  got  word  about  your  still." 

"Then  somebody's  spied  an'  told  'em." 

Here  was  Helton's  chance.    The  vicious  scheme 

216 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


came  to  him  in  a  flash.  Layson  he  hated  fiercely ; 
this  youth  he  hated  fiercely.  What  plan  could  be 
better  than  to  set  the  one  to  hunt  the  other?  If 
Lorey  should  kill  Layson  it  would  remove  Layson 
from  his  path  and  make  his  way  clear  to  the  pur- 
chase of  Madge  Brierly's  coal-lands  at  a  small  frac- 
tion of  their  value.  And,  having  killed  him,  Lorey 
would,  of  course,  be  forced  to  flee  the  country,  for 
the  hue  and  cry  would  be  far-reaching.  Such  a 
killing  never  would  be  passed  over  as  an  ordinary 
mountain  murder  generally  is  by  the  authorities. 
Thus,  at  once,  he  might  be  rid  of  the  young  blue- 
grass  gentleman  he  hated  and  the  young  moun- 
taineer he  feared. 

"You're  right,"  said  he.  "Somebody's  spied  an' 
told  'em.  Somebody  as  stumbled  on  yore  still  while 
he  was  huntin'." 

Lorey  looked  at  him,  wide-eyed,  infuriated.  In- 
stantly he  quite  believed  what  Holton  said.  It 
dove-tailed  with  his  own  grim  hate  of  Layson  that 
Layson  should  hate  him  and  try  to  work  his  ruin 
by  giving  information  to  the  revenuers.  "Some- 
body huntin'!"  he  exclaimed.  "Frank  Layson! 
Say  it,  say  it!" 

"Promise  you'll  never  speak  my  name?"  said 
Holton.  He  had  no  wish  to  be  mixed  up  in  the 
tragic  matter,  and  he  knew,  instinctively,  that  if  Joe 
Lorey  gave  his  word,  moonshiner  and  lawbreaker 
as  he  was,  it  would  be  kept  to  the  grim  end. 


217 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"I  promise  it,  if  it  air  th'  truth  you're  tellin' 
me,"  said  Lorey. 

"It's  true,  then,"  Holton  answered.  "You  can 
see  for  your  own  self  that  I'm  a  stranger  hyar. 
I  couldn't  a'  knowed  o'  th'  still  exceptin'  through 
Frank  Layson." 

The  simple,  specious  argument  to  Lorey  was 
convincing.  "It  air  true,"  he  admitted  slowly. 
"Nobody  else  would  a'  gin  ye  th'  word."  The 
angry  youth  paused  in  black,  murderous  thought. 
"He  air  a-comin'  hyar,  to-night,"  he  went  on  pres- 
ently. "I  heered  him  tell  Madge  Brierly  that  he  war 
comin'  back,  this  evenin'.  You  better — maybe  you 
had  better  git  along."  He  had  no  wish  for  wit- 
nesses to  what  he  planned,  now,  to  accomplish, 
when  Layson  should  come  back  to  Madge,  as  he 
had  promised,  with  the  engineer's  report  upon  her 
coal  lands. 

Holton  nodded,  grimly  satisfied  that  he  had 
planted  a  suspicion  which  might  flower  into  his  own 
revenge.  That  blow  which  Layson  had  delivered 
on  his  face,  in  the  old  days,  had  left  a  scar  upon 
his  soul,  and  now  that  the  young  man  seemed  likely 
to  add  to  this  unforgotten  injury  the  new  one  of 
retiring  from  the  field  as  suitor  for  his  daughter, 
and,  further,  interfering  with  his  plans  to  rob 
Madge  Brierly  of  her  coal  lands,  his  hatred  of 
him  had  become  intense,  insatiable.  What  better 
fortune  could  he  wish  than  to  pit  this  mountain 
youth,  whom,  also,  for  a  reason  carried  over  from 

218 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


dark  days  in  his  past  life,  he  hated,  against  the 
young  man  from  the  bluegrass  whom  he  hated  no 
less  bitterly? 

"Go  by  that  path,  thar,"  said  Lorey,  suddenly, 
and  pointing,  as  Holton  started  to  return  by  the 
direct  route  he  had  followed  as  he  came.  "It  air 
round-about,  but  it'll  lead  you  to  th'  valley.  I'll 
run  no  risk  o'  your  warnin'  him." 

"Don't  you  be  skeered,"  said  Holton.  "I'll  keep 
mum,  no  matter  what  happens." 

With  a  grim  smile  he  started  down  the  path 
which  the  mountaineer  had  pointed  out. 

"Laid  his  whip  acrost  my  face!"  he  muttered  as 
he  went.  "Trifled  with  my  gal!  Him  an'  Ben 
Lorey's  son — let  'em  fight  it  out!  I'm  so  much 
th'  better  off." 

And  Lorey,  slipping  back  into  the  shadow  of  a 
rock,  after  he  had  made  quite  certain  that  the 
stranger  was  following  his  directions,  was  reflect- 
ing, bitterly:  "He's  come  atween  me  an'  th'  gal 
I  love!  He's  put  th'  revenoo  hounds  upon  my 
track!  Oh,  if  he  had  a  dozen  lives,  I'd  have  'em 
all!" 

For  ten  alert  and  watchful  minutes,  which 
seemed  to  stretch  to  hours,  he  crouched  there,  wait- 
ing, waiting,  waiting,  for  the  coming  of  the  man 
he  hated.  During  five  of  these  he  listened  to  the 
sounds  of  Holton's  downward  progress,  brought  to 
his  keen  ear  on  the  soft  breezes  of  the  young  night. 
There  came  the  crackling  of  a  twig,  the  thud,  thud, 

219 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


thud  of  a  dislodged  stone  bounding-  down  the  slope, 
the  rustle  of  leaves  as  the  old  man  shuffled  through 
a  pocket  of  them  gathered  in  the  lea  of  some  pro- 
truding rock  by  vagrant  winds.  Then  all  was  still. 
He  did  not  guess  that  Holton  had  been  anxious 
that  these  sounds  should  reach  him;  that  he  had 
stumbled  down  the  trail  with  awkward  feet  with 
no  thought  in  his  mind  but  to  be  certain  that  the 
sounds  should  reach  him.  Such  was  the  case,  how- 
ever, and,  after  he  felt  sure  that  the  crouching 
mountaineer  above  must  be  convinced  that  he  had 
gone  on  to  the  valley,  the  old  man  turned,  cat- 
like, re-ascended  with  a  skill  as  great  as  Lorey's 
own,  and,  with  not  a  sound  to  warn  the  moun- 
taineer that  he  had  retraced  any  of  his  steps,  took 
cautious  place  behind  a  rock  upon  the  very  edge  of 
the  open  space  where,  when  Layson  came,  he  felt 
quite  sure  a  tragedy  would  be  enacted. 

Then  Layson  came  blithely  up  the  trail.  He 
had  gone  through  the  engineer's  report  with  care. 
The  coal  prospects  included  the  girl's  land.  He 
was  full  of  rare  elation  at  thought  of  the  good  luck 
which  had  descended  on  the  little  mountain-maid, 
full  of  pleasant  plans  for  a  bright  future  from  none 
of  which  she  was  omitted. 

His  dreams  were  rudely  interrupted  as  Joe  Lorey 
stepped  ominously  from  behind  the  rock  where  he 
had  waited  for  him. 

"Hold  up  your  hands!"  the  mountaineer  com- 


220 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


manded,  with  his  rifle  levelled  at  the  advancing 
youth. 

"Joe  Lorey!"  exclaimed  Layson. 

"You  know  what  air  between  us.  Your  time  air 
come.  H  you  want  to  pray,  do  it  quick,  for  my 
finger  air  itchin'  to  pull  th'  trigger." 

Layson's  blood  and  breeding  told,  in  this  emer- 
gency. He  did  not  flinch  a  whit.  "I'm  ready,"  he 
said  calmly.  "I'm  not  afraid  to  die,  though  it's 
hard  to  meet  death  at  the  hands  of  a  coward." 

"Coward !"  said  the  mountaineer,  amazed.  "You 
call  me  that?" 

"The  man  who  shoots  another  in  cold  blood, 
giving  him  no  chance  for  his  life,  deserves  no  bet- 
ter name." 

This  appealed  to  Lorey.  So  had  his  father  died 
— at  the  hands  of  one  who  killed  him  in  cold  blood, 
giving  him  no  chance  for  his  life.  "You  shan't 
die  callin'  me  that!"  he  cried.  He  leaned  his  rifle 
against  a  nearby  rock,  threw  his  knife  upon  the 
ground  beside  it,  pulled  off  his  coat,  and  thus,  un- 
armed, advanced  upon  his  enemy.  "We're  ekal 
now,"  he  said  with  grim  intensity,  and  pointed  to 
the  chasm  through  which  ran  the  stream  which 
made  Madge  Brierly's  refuge  an  island.  "That 
gully  air  a  hundred  feet  straight  down,"  he  said, 
"an'  its  bottom  air  kivered  with  rocks.  When 
we're  through,  your  body  or  mine'll  lay  there.  Air 
you  ready?" 

Holton,    tense   with   excitement,    was    watching 

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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


every  move  of  the  two  men  from  his  hidden  vant- 
age point.  Upon  his  face  was  th°  expression  of 
an  animal  of  prey. 

"Ready!"  said  Frank,  quietly. 

It  was  a  terrific  struggle  which  ensued.  The 
trained  muscles  of  the  lowland  athlete  were 
matched  against  the  lithe  thews  of  the  mountaineer 
so  evenly  that,  for  a  time,  there  was  doubt  of  what 
the  outcome  might  be.  Holton,  watching,  watch- 
ing, thrilled  with  every  second  of  it.  Little  he 
cared  which  man  won;  the  best  thing  which  pos- 
sibly could  happen,  for  his  own  good,  he  reflected, 
would  be  that  both  should  crash  down  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  gully  locked  in  one  of  their  bear-hugs, 
to  fall  together  on  the  jagged  rocks  below.  The 
fierce  breathing  of  the  contestants,  the  shuffle  of 
their  struggling  feet  upon  the  ground,  the  occa- 
sional involuntary  groan  from  one  man  or  the 
other  as  his  adversary  crushed  him  in  embrace  so 
painful  that  an  exclamation  could  not  be  sup- 
pressed, were  all  music  to  the  ears  of  the  old  man 
behind  the  rock.  Both  youths  were  perils  to  him. 
Let  them  kill  each  other.  He  would  be  the  gainer, 
whatever  the  outcome  of  the  battle. 

Suddenly  Frank's  foot  slipped  on  a  rolling  peb- 
ble. Instantly  Lorey  had  taken  advantage  of  the 
mishap,  and,  with  a  quick  wrench,  thrown  him 
crashing  to  the  earth.  He  lay  there,  scarcely 
breathing,  utterly  unconscious. 

The  mountaineer  bent  over  him,  ready  to  meet 

222 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


the  first  sign  of  revival  with  renewed  attack,  his 
bloodshot  eyes  strained  on  the  face  of  the  young 
man  upon  the  ground.  Then,  anxious  to  be  satis- 
fied that  his  prostrate  enemy  was  not  feigning,  he 
knelt  by  him  and  peered  into  his  face,  placed  his 
hand  upon  his  chest  above  his  heart,  felt  his  pulse 
with  awkward  fingers.  He  wondered,  now,  if  he 
had  not  killed  him,  outright,  for  Frank's  head  had 
struck  the  ground  with  a  'terrific  impact.  But 
Layson's  nostrils  soon  began  to  dilate  and  contract 
with  a  spasmodic  breathing.  He  still  lived. 

Rendered  careless  by  the  excitement  of  the  mo- 
ment, Joe  again  yielded  to  the  habit  engendered  by 
much  solitude  and  spoke  his  thoughts  aloud. 

"It'll  be  long  afore  he'll  stir,"  he  muttered.  "I'll 
throw  him  down  into  th'  gully." 

He  rose,  and,  going  to  the  side  of  the  ravine, 
peered  over  with  a  fearful  curiosity  at  the  brawl- 
ing torrent,  cut  into  foam-ribbons  by  a  horde  of 
knife-edged  rocks.  Then  he  went  to  Layson  and 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  grasp  his  shoulder. 

Occurred  a  psychological  phenomenon.  He 
found  his  courage  fail  at  thought  of  laying  hands 
upon  the  man  as  he  was  stretched  there  helpless. 

"I— I  can't  touch  him !"  he  exclaimed.  "It'd  be 
—why,  it'd  be  like  handlin'  th'  dead !" 

He  drew  back,  non-plussed,  ashamed  of  his  own 
timidity,  yet  unable  to  overcome  it.  He  had  felled 
the  man  and  meant  to  kill  him,  yet,  now,  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  lay  a  hand  upon  him. 

223 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


The  thought  then  flashed  into  his  mind  of  the 
dreadful  contents  of  his  old  game-sack. 

"Th'  bomb,"  he  said.  "Th'  dynamighty  bomb 
that  I  was  savin'  for  th'  revenuers !  Let  that  finish 
out  th'  man  as  set  'em  onto  me!" 

He  took  the  bomb  from  the  old  sack  with  trem- 
bling fingers,  laid  it  by  Frank's  side  and,  with  a 
match  which  flickered  because  the  hands  which 
held  it  were  unsteady  as  a  palsied  man's,  set  fire 
to  the  fuse.  Then  he  drew  off  to  one  side. 

"Now,  burn!"  he  said,  with  set  teeth  and  lower- 
ing brow.  "Burn!  Burn!" 

For  a  second  he  stood  there,  watching  the  spark- 
ing sputter  of  the  powder  as  it  slowly  ate  its  way 
along  the  little  paper  tube.  Then,  suddenly,  a 
dreadful  thought  occurred  to  him.  The  girl! 
What  if  Madge  Brierly  should  come  to  meet  the 
lowlander  before  the  bomb  exploded,  should  see 
him  lying  there,  should  hurry  to  him,  frightened, 
and  get  there  just  in  time  to 

He  shuddered.  He  must  protect  the  girl  he 
loved!  She  could  reach  the  side  of  the  endangered 
man  only  by  means  of  the  small  bridge.  But  one 
rope  held  it  in  position  above  the  deep,  precipitous- 
sided  gully. 

He  raised  his  rifle  to  his  shoulder.  It  was  a  hard 
shot,  one  which  most  men  would  have  deemed  im- 
possible, but  there  was  a  star  in  line.  He  fired. 
The  bridge  crashed  down,  a  ruin,  the  severed  rope 


224 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


now  dangling  limply,  freed  of  the  burden  it  had 
held  for  many  years. 

"She's  safe!"  said  he. 

For  another  instant  he  stood  studying  the  splut- 
tering fuse.  From  what  he  had  seen  at  the  railroad 
workings  he  knew  it  was  destined  to  burn  long 
enough  so  that  many  workmen  could  get  out  of 
danger  before  the  spark  reached  the  strong  ex- 
plosive in  the  cartridge.  He  need  not  hurry. 

"In  three  minutes  it'll  all  be  ended,"  he  reflected. 
"He's  as  helpless  as  a  baby;  he  can't  strike  back, 
now;  it's  no  more  nor  he  deserves.  I'm  goin'." 

He  straightened  up  and  would  have  hurried  off, 
had  not,  at  just  that  moment,  the  sweet  voice  of 
the  girl  he  loved  rung  through  the  brooding,  fra- 
grant evening  air,  in  song. 

It  brought  him  to  himself,  it  filled  him  with  a 
horrified  realization  of  the  foulness  of  the  deed 
which  he  was  contemplating. 

"No— no!"  said  he.  "Why,  I'd  be  the  coward 
that  he  called  me!" 

He  hurried  to  the  fuse  and,  with  trembling 
eagerness,  stamped  out  the  spark  which,  now,  was 
creeping  close  indeed  to  that  point  where  it  would 
have  blossomed  into  the  terrifying  flower  of  death. 

"I'll  fight  him  ag'in,"  he  said;  and  then,  address- 
ing the  now  extinguished  fuse,  the  harmless  car- 
tridge of  explosive:  "You  lie  thar  and  prove  ter 
him  I  ain't  no  coward!" 

He  hurried  down  the  trail. 

225 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Holton,  vastly  disappointed,  crept  out  from  his 
hiding  place.  "The  fool!"  he  muttered.  "Oh,  the 
fool!  That  thar  little  spark  would  a'  put  me  even 
an'  made  me  safe  fer  life!  An'  it  war  lighted— 
it  war  lighted !" 

His  regret  was  keen.  He  raged  there  like  a 
madman  robbed  of  his  intended  prey.  Then,  sud- 
denly : 

"But — who'll  believe  him  when  he  says  he  put  it 
out?  I'll— doit!" 

He  hastily  took  out  a  match,  struck  it,  relighted 
the  dead  fuse. 

"It'll  be  his  work,  not  mine!"  he  thought,  ex- 
ultantly, as  he  paused  to  see  that  the  fuse  would 
surely  burn. 

As  he  turned  to  hasten  from  the  spot  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  something  white  across  the  gully  at 
the  thresh-hold  of  the  girl's  cabin.  For  a  second 
this  was  terrifying,  but  he  quickly  regained  poise. 
The  bridge  was  gone.  She  could  not  reach  the  side 
of  the  endangered  man  to  save  him,  she  could  not 
reach  the  mainland  to  pursue  him  and  discover  his 
identity.  He  fled. 

The  girl  was  worried  by  the  long  delay  in  Lay- 
son's  coming.  For  fully  half  an  hour  she  had  been 
listening  for  his  cheery  hail — that  hail  which  had, 
of  late,  come  to  mean  so  much  to  her — as  she 
worked  about  her  household  tasks.  The  last  words 
he  had  said  to  her  had  hinted  at  such  unimagined 
possibilities  of  riches,  of  education,  of  delirious  de- 

226 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


lights  to  come,  that  her  impatience  was  but  natural ; 
and,  besides  this,  Joe's  words  had  worried  her. 
She  did  not  think  the  mountaineer  would  ever 
really  let  his  jealousy  lead  him  to  a  foul  attack  upon 
his  rival,  but  his  words  had  worried  her.  She 
stood  upon  her  doorstep,  hand  above  her  eyes,  and 
peered  across  the  gorge  toward  where  the  trail  de- 
bouched into  the  little  clearing. 

Nothing  was  in  sight  there,  and  her  gaze  wan- 
dered along  the  little  rocky  field,  in  aimless  scru- 
tiny. Finally  it  chanced  upon  the  prostrate  form 
of  the  young  man. 

"What's  that  lyin'  thar?"  she  thought,  intensely 
startled.  And  then,  after  another  moment's  peer- 
ing: "Why,  it's  Mr.  Frank!" 

She  was  amazed  and  frightened.  Then  her  eye 
caught  the  little  sputtering  of  sparks  along  the  fuse. 
It  further  startled  her. 

"It's  Mr.  Frank  and  somethin's  burnin'  close  be- 
side him!" 

Suspicion  flashed  into  her  mind  like  lightning, 
followed,  almost  instantly,  by  firm  conviction. 

"It's  a  fuse,"  she  cried,  "an'  thar  by  him  is  th' 
bomb!  It's  Joe  Lorey's  work!  Oh,  oh " 

She  sprang  down  the  rough  path  toward  the  place 
where,  ever  since  she  could  remember,  the  little 
bridge  had  swung.  Now,  though,  it  was  gone. 

"The  bridge!"  she  cried.  "The  bridge!  It's 
gone!  I  can't  cross!  I've  got  to  see  him  die!" 

Her   frantic  eyes   caught   sight  of   the    frayed 

227 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


rope,  dangling  from  the  firm  supports  which  had  so 
long  held  up  the  bridge  by  means  of  it.  Instantly 
her  quick  mind  saw  the  only  chance  there  was  to 
save  the  man  whom,  now,  she  knew  she  loved. 
She  sprang  for  the  rope  and  caught  it,  gave  herself 
a  mighty  push  with  both  her  agile  feet,  and,  hang- 
ing above  certain  death  if  hold  should  fail  or  rope 
break,  swung  across  the  chasm  and  found  foothold 
on  the  main-land. 

In  another  second  she  was  at  the  side  of  the  un- 
conscious man.  Another  and  she  had  the  cartridge, 
sputtering  fuse  and  all,  in  her  right  hand,  another 
and  the  deadly  thing  was  hurtling  to  the  bottom  of 
the  deep  ravine,  whence  an  almost  immediately 
ensuing  crashing  boom  told  her  that  she  had  not 
arrived  a  moment  sooner  than  had  been  essential 
to  the  salvation  of  the  man  she  loved. 

She  knelt  by  Frank,  pulled  his  head  up  to  her 
knee,  chafed  at  his  insensate  hands,  and  called  to 
him  wildly,  fearing  that  he  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Joe  Lorey  was  unhappy  in  his  mountains.  After 
the  visiting  party  had  gone  down  from  Layson's 
camp,  and,  in  course  of  time,  Layson  himself  had 
followed  them  because  of  the  approach  of  the  great 
race  which  was  to  make  or  mar  his  fortunes,  the 
man  breathed  easier,  although  their  coming  and  the 
subsequent  events  had  made,  he  knew,  impressions 
on  his  life  which  never  could  be  wiped  away.  He 
hated  Layson  none  the  less  because  he  had  departed. 
He  argued  that  he  had  not  gone  until  he  viciously 
had  stolen  that  thing  which  he,  Lorey,  valued  most : 
the  love  of  beautiful  Madge  Brierly.  He  brooded 
constantly  upon  this,  neglecting  his  small  moun 
tain-farm,  spending  almost  all  his  time  at  his  illegal 
trade  of  brewing  untaxed  whisky  in  his  hidden  still, 
despite  the  girl's  continual  urgings  to  give  up  the 
perilous  occupation  before  it  was  too  late.  He  had 
told  her  that  he  would,  if  she  would  marry  him; 
now  that  she  would  not,  he  told  her  surlily  that  he 
would  continue  to  defy  the  law  even  if  he  knew 
that  every  "revenuer"  in  the  state  was  on  his  trail. 

229 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


He  was  conscious  that  there  was  real  danger;  he 
believed  that  Layson  knew  about  the  still  and  that 
the  bitter  enmity  resulting  from  the  fight  which  had 
so  nearly  proved  his  death  might  prompt  him  to  be- 
trayal of  the  secret;  but  with  the  stubbornness  of 
the  mountaineer  he  clung  doggedly  to  his  illegal 
apparatus  in  the  mountain-cave,  kept  doggedly  at 
the  illegal  work  he  did  with  it.  It  was  character- 
istic of  the  man,  his  forbears  and  his  breed  in  gen- 
eral, that,  now,  when  he  knew  that  deadly  danger 
well  might  threaten,  he  sent  more  moonshine 
whisky  from  the  still  than  ever  had  gone  from  it 
in  like  length  of  time,  either  in  his  father's  day  or 
his. 

That  his  actual  and  only  dangerous  enemy  was 
Holton,  he  did  not,  for  an  instant,  guess.  He 
knew  of  not  the  slightest  reason  why  this  stranger 
should  include  him  in  the  hatred  he  had  sworn 
he  felt  for  Layson — that  hatred  which,  he  had  as- 
sured him,  was  as  bitter  as  his  own.  He  would 
have  been  as  much  astonished  as  dismayed  had  he 
known  that  Helton's  almost  instant  action,  upon 
arriving  at  the  county-seat,  had  been  to  make  a  visit 
to  the  local  chief  of  the  Revenue-Service — cau- 
tiously, at  night,  for  to  be  known  as  an  informer 
might  have  cost  his  life  at  other  hands  than 
Lorey's,  would  have  made  the  mountain  for  far 
miles  blaze  vividly  with  wrath  against  him. 

So,  defiant  of  the  man  he  thought  to  be  his  foe, 
unconscious  of  the  hatred  of  the  man  who  really 

230 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


was,  Lorey  was  working  in  his  still  when  a  small 
boy,  sent  up  from  a  cabin  far  below,  dashed, 
breathless,  to  him  with  the  news  that  revenue-men 
were  actually  upon  their  way  in  his  direction.  He 
had  scarcely  time  to  put  his  fire  out,  hide  the  lighter 
portions  of  his  apparatus  and  flee  to  a  safe  hiding- 
place,  nearby,  before,  clambering  with  lithe  skill 
and  caution  almost  equal  to  his  own  along  the 
rocky  pathways  of  the  mountain-side,  armed  like 
soldiers  scouting  in  a  hostile  country,  cool-eyed  as 
Indians,  hard-faced  as  executioners,  they  actually 
appeared. 

For  a  time,  as  Lorey  watched  their  progress 
from  his  covert,  he  held  his  rifle  levelled,  held  his 
finger  on  its  trigger,  determined  to  kill  them  in 
their  tracks;  and  it  was  no  thrill  of  mercy  for  the 
men  or  fear  of  consequences  to  himself  which  saved 
their  lives.  It  was  rather  that  he  did  not  wish 
further  to  risk  his  liberty  until  he  had  had  oppor- 
tunity to  glance  along  the  gleaming  barrel  of  his 
rifle  as  it  was  pointed  at  Frank  Layson's  heart. 

After  the  men  had  gone  he  went  back  to  his 
still  to  view  the  ruins  they  had  left  behind  them. 
His  wrath  was  terrible.  Madge,  who  had,  of 
course,  learned  what  had  happened  almost  in- 
stantly, for  the  still  was  scarcely  out  of  hearing 
of  her  cabin,  tried  vainly  to  console,  to  calm  him. 
He  turned  on  her  with  a  rage  of  which,  in  all  her 
life  among  hot-tempered  mountaineers,  she  had 
never  seen  the  equal,  and  chokingly  swore  vengc- 

231 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


ance  on  the  man  who  had  given  the  information 
which  had  resulted  in  the  raid. 

"They  come  straight  to  th'  still,"  he  told  her, 
"never  falterin',  never  wonderin'  if,  maybe,  they 
was  on  th'  right  path.  Ev'ry  inch  o'  th'  hull  way 
had  been  mapped  out  for  'em,  an'  they  didn't  make 
a  mis-step  from  th'  valley  to  th'  very  entrance  o' 
th'  cave.  I'll  git  th'  chap  that  planned  their  course 
out  for  'em  thataway!  I'll  git  'im,  Madge!  I'll 
git  'im,  sure!" 

Her  heart  sank  in  her  breast  like  lead.  She 
knew  perfectly  whom  Lorey  meant.  She  knew  as 
perfectly  that  Layson  never  had  informed  upon 
the  moonshiner,  but  she  also  knew  that  Heaven 
itself  could  not,  then,  convince  the  man  of  that. 

"Who  do  you  mean  you'll  git,  Joe?"  she  fal- 
tered, hoping  against  hope  that  she  was  wrong  in 
her  suspicions. 

"You  know  well  enough,"  he  answered.  "Who 
would  I  mean  but  that  damn'  furriner,  Frank  Lay- 
son?  He  warn't  satisfied  with  comin'  here  an' 
stealin'  you  away  from  me!  He  had  to  put  th' 
revenuers  on  th'  track  o'  th'  old  still  that  was  my 
dad's  afore  me,  an'  has  been  th'  one  thing,  siden 
you,  I've  ever  keered  fer  in  my  life." 

"You're  wrong,  Joe,"  she  insisted.  "You're 
shore  wrong.  Frank  Layson'd  never  do  a  cow- 
ard's trick  like  that!" 

"He  done  it!"  Lorey  answered  doggedly.     "He 


232 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


done  it,  an'  as  there  is  a  God  in  Heaven  he  air 
goin'  to  pay  th'  price  fer  doin'  it!" 

With  that  he  stalked  off  down  the  trail,  his  rifle 
held  as  ever  in  the  crook  of  his  elbow,  his  brows 
as  black  as  human  brows  could  be. 

For  a  time  she  sat  there  on  a  rock,  gazing  after 
him,  half -stupefied,  with  eyes  wide,  terror-stricken. 
What  could  a  mere  girl  do  to  avert  the  dreadful 
tragedy  impending?  Tireless  as  he  was,  she  knew 
that  he  could  keep  upon  the  trail  for  twenty-four 
hours  without  a  pause,  and  that  such  travelling, 
with  the  lifts  which  he  would  get  from  mountain 
teamsters,  would  take  him  to  the  home  of  the  man 
whose  life  he  had  determined  to  snuff  out  at  any 
hazard.  Beside  herself  with  fright  for  Frank,  she 
sped  back  to  her  cabin,  took  what  food  was  ready- 
cooked  and  could  be  bundled  up  to  carry  on  the 
journey,  put  on  her  heaviest  shoes  and  started  for 
the  door.  But,  suddenly,  the  thought  flashed 
through  her  mind  that,  even  as  Joe  Lorey  was 
bound  down  the  trails  to  meet  his  rival,  so  would 
she  be  bound  down  them  to  meet  her  own.  She 
could  not  bear  the  thought  of  facing  Barbara  Hoi- 
ton,  clad,  as  she  was  now,  in  rough,  half-shapeless, 
mountain-homespun.  She  made  another  bundle, 
larger  than  the  one  which  held  her  food,  by  many 
times,  and,  when  she  finally  set  off,  this  bundle  held 
the  finery  which  she  had  so  laboriously  prepared  in 
the  mad  hope  of  rivaling  the  work  of  the  blue- 
grass  belle's  accomplished  city  dressmakers. 

233 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Down  in  the  bluegrass  home  of  the  ancient  Lay- 
son  family  all  was  excitement  in  anticipation  of 
the  race  which  was  to  mean  so  much  to  the  fortunes 
of  the  young  master  of  the  fine  old  mansion  which, 
with  pillared  porticos  and  mighty  chimneys,  domi- 
nated the  whole  section.  Layson's  heart  was  filled 
with  confidence  whenever  he  went  to  the  stables  to 
view  the  really  startling  beauty  of  the  lovely  ani- 
mal on  which  his  hope  was  pinned;  it  sunk  into 
despair,  when,  seated  in  his  study  in  the  house, 
away  from  her,  he  counted  up  the  cost  of  all 
which  he  would  lose  if  she  did  not  run  first  in  the 
great  race. 

None  but  the  Colonel,  Miss  Alathea  and  him- 
self had  an  idea  of  the  real  magnitude  of  the 
stakes  dependant  on  Queen  Bess.  Upon  the  glossy 
shoulders  of  the  lovely  mare  rested,  indeed,  a  great 
burden  of  responsibility.  If  she  won  she  would 
not  only  secure  the  large  purse  for  the  owner,  but 
be  salable  for  a  price  which  would  enable  him 
to  take  advantage,  fully,  of  the  offer  which  the 
syndicate  had  made  to  develop  his  coal  lands.  If 
she  failed — well,  the  fortunes  of  the  house  of 
Layson  would  be  seriously  shattered. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  Uncle  Neb,  in  whom  his 
master's  confidence  was  absolute,  had  strict  in- 
junctions closely  to  guard  the  mare.  The  faith- 
ful negro  watched  her  with  a  vigilance  which  was 
scarcely  less  unremitting  in  the  daytime  than  it 

234 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


was  at  night  when  he  slept  upon  the  very  straw 
which  bedded  her. 

Miss  Alathea,  intensely  prejudiced  against  horse- 
racing  and  the  gambling  which  invariably  goes  with 
it,  by  the  Colonel's  wasted  life  and  her  own  ensu- 
ing loneliness,  nevertheless  prayed  night  and  day 
that  Queen  Bess  would  be  victorious,  for  Frank 
had  finally  refused,  point-blank,  to  let  her  risk 
her  fortune  in  the  scheme  for  the  development  of 
his  coal-lands,  and  so,  if  the  mare  lost  and  the 
eastern  firm  refused  to  purchase  her  at  the  large 
price  which  would  enable  him  to  join  the  syndi- 
cate, his  great  chance  would  be  gone.  Perhaps  not 
once  in  the  world's  history  had  any  maiden-lady, 
constitutionally  opposed  to  betting  and  the  race- 
track, given  as  much  thought  to  an  impending 
contest  between  horses  on  which  great  sums  were 
certain  to  be  won  and  lost,  as  Miss  Alathea  did, 
these  days. 

And  if  Miss  Alathea  was  excited,  what  should 
be  said  about  the  gallant  Colonel?  Every  day  he 
visited  the  Layson  place;  every  day  he  scrutinized 
the  mare  with  wise  and  anxious  eyes;  every  day 
he  from  his  soul  assured  her  owner  and  her  own- 
er's aunt  that  it  was  quite  impossible  that  she 
should  lose ;  every  day  he  cautioned  Neb,  her 
guardian,  to  let  no  human  being,  whom  he  did  not 
know  and  whom  he  and  his  master  had  not  every 
cause  to  trust  implicitly,  approach  the  splendid 
beast.  Wise  in  the  ways  of  race-tracks  and  the  un- 

235 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


scrupulous  men  who  have,  unfortunately,  thrown 
the  sport  of  kings  into  sad  disrepute,  he  feared 
some  treachery  continually. 

Neb  scarcely  left  the  stable-yard,  by  day,  unless 
the  mare  went  with  him,  by  night  he  slept  so  that 
he  could,  by  reaching  out  a  wrinkled,  ebon  hand, 
actually  touch  her  glossy  hide.  He  fed  her  him- 
self with  oats  and  hay  which  he  examined  with  the 
utmost  care  before  they  found  her  manger  or  her 
rack;  he  watered  her  himself  with  water  from  a 
well  within  the  stable  and  guarded  by  locked  doors, 
drawn  in  a  pail  which,  invariably,  he  rinsed  with 
boiling  water  before  he  filled  it  up  for  her.  No 
drugs  should  reach  that  mare  if  he  could  help  it! 
None  but  himself  or  his  "Marse  Frank"  was  under 
any  circumstances  permitted  to  get  on  her  back. 
If  watchfulness  could  possibly  preserve  the  mare 
unharmed  and  in  fine  shape  until  the  day  of  the 
great  race,  Neb  plainly  meant  to  see  that  this  was 
done.  Even  the  amateur  brass-band  and  glee-club 
into  which  he  had  organized  the  stable-boys  and 
other  negro  lads  about  the  place,  and  of  which  he 
acted  as  drum-major — the  proudest  moment  of  his 
life  were  when  he  donned  the  moth-eaten  old  shako 
which  was  his  towering  badge  of  leadership — 
must  practice  nowhere  save  within  the  stable-yard, 
where  he  could  train  them  and,  at  the  same  time, 
keep  watchful  eyes  upon  Queen  Bess'  quarters. 

The  negroes,  young  and  old,  about  the  place,  in- 
deed, were  wild  with  their  enthusiasm  for  the  mare. 

236 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


The  day  before  the  race  a  delegation  of  them,  full 
of  eagerness,  met  Neb  as  he  came  out  of  the  stable. 

"Say,  Unc  Neb,"  said  one  of  them,  "we-all's 
made  a  pool." 

"Pool  on  de  races?" 

"Uh-huh!  An'  we-all  wants  to  know  jes'  what 
we  ought  to  put  ouah  money  on." 

They  well  knew  what  he  would  say. 

"Queen  Bess,  fo'  suah,"  he  answered,  to  their 
vast  delight.  "Queen  Bess  ebery  time.  She's  fit 
to  run  fo'  huh  life." 

The  boys  accepted  the  suggestion  with  a  shout, 
and  he  was  about  to  enter  into  one  of  the  long  dis- 
sertations on  the  strong  points  of  his  equine  darling, 
when  he  was  informed  that  some  stranger  was  ap- 
proaching. He  peered  down  the  road  with  his  old 
eyes,  but  could  not  recognize  the  visitor. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  asked  one  of  the  black  lads. 

"Marse  Holton." 

"Marse  Holton!"  he  repeated  dryly.  "Run 
along,  now,  honiest.  Unc'  Neb  gwine  be  busy.  I 
won't  hab  dat  ar  Marse  Holton  pryin'  round  dat 
mare.  Hoodoo  her  fo'  suah."  He  sidled  to  the 
stable  door,  and,  careful  to  see  that  his  bent  body 
hid  the  operation  from  the  coming  visitor,  turned 
the  key  in  the  big  lock.  The  key  he  then  slipped 
into  his  capacious  trousers  pocket. 

"Hello,  Neb,"  said  Holton,  affably,  as  he  came 
up. 

"Ebenin',    suh."      Neb   added   nothing   to   this 

237 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


greeting  and  went  nonchalantly  to  a  distant  bench 
to  sit  down  on  it  carelessly. 

"I  say,  Neb,"  said  Holton,  "I  expect  to  do  a  lit- 
tle betting,  so  I  thought  I'd  jest  drop  over  and  take 
a  look  at  Layson's  mare." 

Neb  sat  immovable  upon  his  bench.  At  first, 
indeed,  he  did  not  even  speak,  but,  fianlly,  he  looked 
at  Holton  calmly,  took  the  key  out  of  his  pocket, 
tossed  it  in  the  air,  caught  it  as  it  came  down,  put 
it  back  into  his  pocket  and  dryly  said :  "T'ink  not, 
suh." 

Holton,  paying  no  attention  to  him,  had  gone  on 
to  the  stable-door  and  tried  it.  Finding  it  to  be 
fast  locked,  he  turned  back  toward  the  darkey. 
"The  door's  locked,  Neb,"  he  said. 

"Knowed  dat  afore,  suh,"  Neb  replied. 

Holton  was  nettled  by  his  nonchalance.  "Open 
that  door!"  he  ordered. 

"Not  widout  Marse  Holton's  ohduhs,  suh,"  Neb 
answered  calmly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  Holton,  an- 
grily. 

"Jus'  what  I  say,  suh." 

Holton  made  a  slightly  threatening  movement 
toward  him,  but  Neb  did  not  even  wink. 

"Don't  git  riled,  suh — bad  fo'  de  livuh,  suh." 

Holton,  now,  was  very  angry.  "Look  here,"  he 
said,  advancing  on  the  aged  negro  angrily.  "Do 
you  dare  insult  a  friend  and  neighbor  of  Mr. 
Layson  ?" 

238 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Neb  slowly  rose  and  answered  with  some  dig- 
nity: "I  dares  obey  Marse  Frank's  plain  ohduhs, 
sub.  Dat  mare  represents  full  twenty-fi'  thousan' 
dolluhs  to  him"  (Neb  rolled  the  handsome  figures 
lovingly  upon  his  tongue),  "an'  dere's  thousan's 
more'll  be  bet  on  huh  to-morruh."  He  looked  at 
Holton  with  but  thinly  veiled  contempt.  "Plenty 
men  'u'd  risk  deir  wuthless  lives  to  drug  huh." 

"Oh,  shucks!"  said  Holton,  trying  to  control  his 
temper  because  of  his  great  eagerness  to  get  in  to 
the  mare.  "She  would  be  safe  with  me;  you  know 
it." 

"I  knows  Marse  Frank  hab  barred  ebery  win- 
dow an'  sealed  ebery  doah  but  dis  one,  an'  gib 
me  ohduhs  to  let  no  one  in  'cept  he  is  by.  I  Stan's 
by  dem  ohduhs  while  dere's  bref  in  my  ol'  body." 

Holton  was  infuriated.  "It's  lucky  for  you  I'm 
not  your  master!" 

"Dat's  what  I  t'ink,  suh." 

"If  you  was  my  nigger,  I'd  teach  you  perliteness 
with  a  black-snake  whip!  I'll  see  what  Layson'll 
say  to  such  sass  as  you've  gin  me.  Jest  you  wait 
till  you  hear  from  him." 

Neb  was  not  impressed  by  the  man's  wrath. 
"Huhd  from  him  afoah,  suh.  Oh,  I'll  wait,  I'll 
wait." 

He  went  up  to  the  stable-door,  unlocked  it  and 
stood  in  the  open  portal.  Holton  would  have  fol- 
lowed him,  but  Neb  began  to  close  the  door. 


239 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"You'll  wait,  too,  suh,"  said  the  negro,  grinning, 
"on  de  outside,  suh." 

He  closed  and  locked  the  door  on  the  inside. 

Holton  was  beside  himself  with  wrath.  "Damn 
him!  Damn  him!"  he  exclaimed.  "Damn  him 
and  damn  his  proud  young  puppy  of  a  master!  I'll 
ruin  him!  I'll  set  my  foot  on  him  and  smash  him, 
yet!" 

Baffled,  he  walked  down  the  drive. 

"There's  a  way,"  he  told  himself.  "It's  bold  and 
risky,  but  nobody'll  suspicion  me.  I've  kept  straight 
here  in  the  bluegrass.  The  mountains  and  all  as 
ever  knowed  me  thar  are  far  away !" 

But  all  who  had  known  him  in  the  mountains 
were  not  as  far  away  as  he  supposed.  Even  as 
he  spoke  a  dusty,  weary  figure  in  worn  homespun, 
carrying  a  mammoth  bundle,  limping  sadly  upon 
bruised  and  blistered  feet,  came  through  the  shrub- 
bery, approaching  the  great  stables  from  the  far 
side  of  the  big  house-lot.  Holton  looked  at  this 
wayfarer  with  amazement. 

"Madge  Brierly !"  he  cried.  "Gal,  what  are  you 
a-doin'  here?" 

"Don't  know's  I've  got  any  call  to  tell  you," 
Madge  replied,  almost  as  much  astonished  at  the 
sight  of  him  as  he  had  been  at  sight  of  her.  Then 
she  smiled  roguishly  at  him.  "Maybe  you'll  find 
out,  though." 

"I  tell  you  this  ain't  no  place  for  you,"  he  ad- 
monished her.  "Lordy!  They  takes  up  folks  that 

240 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


looks  like  you,  for  vagrants.  Take  my  advice, 
turn  back  to  the  mountings." 

She  looked  at  him  with  that  same  smile,  still 
unimpressed. 

For  no  reason  which  he  could  have  well  ex- 
plained the  man  was  almost  panic-stricken  in  his 
keen  anxiety  to  get  the  girl  away  from  the  old 
Layson  homestead  and  the  possibility  of  meeting 
those  who  dwelt  therein. 

"Here,  if  you'll  go,"  he  added,  and  thrust  his 
hand  into  his  pocket,  "I'll  give  you  money — money 
to  help  you  on  your  way." 

Still  she  smiled  at  him  with  that  aggravating, 
meaning  smile;  that  smile  which  he  could  by  no 
means  fathom  and  of  which  she  scarcely  knew  the 
meaning.  "No,"  she  said,  "I  don't  want  your 
money.  You  couldn't  hire  me  to  leave  the  blue- 
grass  till  I've  seen  Frank  Layson." 

Seeing  that  she  was  determined,  unable  to  con- 
jecture what  she  had  come  down  for,  realizing, 
upon  second  thought,  that  it  was  most  improbable 
that  she  had  any  tale  to  tell  of  him,  he  reluctantly 
gave  way.  "As  you  will,  then,"  he  said  slowly. 
"But  let  me  warn  you  that  you  won't  be  welcome 
hyar.  You'll  learn  the  difference  between  the 
mounting  and  the  blue-grass  folks.  You'd  better 
think  it  over  and  turn  back." 

"I'll  not,"  said  she. 

As  he  walked  disgustedly  away  she  watched  him 
curiously.  "I  wonder  why  he  is  so  sot  on  makin' 

241 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


me  go  back?"  she  mused.  "Maybe  he  air  right 
in  sayin'  that  I  won't  be  welcome;  but  I'll  do  my 
duty,  just  th'  same!" 

Neb  came  out  from  the  stable.  The  girl  saw 
him  with  delight.  "Dellaw !"  she  said.  "How  tired 
I  be!  Howdy,  Uncle  Neb;  howdy!" 

"Sakes  alive!"  he  cried.  "It's  de  frenomenom, 
come  down  frum  de  mountains!  Howdy,  honey, 
howdy!"  He  hurried  toward  her  and  saw  that  she 
was  near  to  tears  from  weariness  and  the  strain 
of  what  she  had  gone  through  and  what  she  had 
to  tell.  "Why,  chil',  what's  de  mattuh?" 

"Pebble  in  my  shoe,"  she  answered,  and  busied 
herself  as  if  removing  one.  "All  right  in  a  min- 
ute. This  air  a  long  way  from  th'  mountings." 

"Honey,  you  don't  mean  you  walked!" 

"Had  to.  Wings  ain't  growed,  yet.  Say;  I've 
come  to  bring  a  word  to  Mr.  Frank.  Is  he  to 
home?"  She  motioned  toward  the  stable,  which 
was  the  finest  building  she  had  ever  seen. 

"Yes;  but  he  don't  lib  dar,  honey." 

"Don't  he  ?     Who  does,  then  ?" 

"Queen  Bess." 

"Queen  Bess !"  The  girl  was  thunderstruck ;  her 
worry  choked  her.  She  knew  Frank  owned  a 
blooded  mare,  but  did  not  know  her  name,  and  she 
had  but  vaguely  heard  of  queens.  "Well — air  she 
to  home?" 

"Yes;  an'  Marse  Frank,  an'  Miss  'Lethe,  an' 
Miss  Barbara's  comin',  purty  soon,  to  see  huh." 

242 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Miss  Barbarous!"  said  Madge,  aroused  by  the 
mere  mention  of  the  girl  who,  from  the  start,  she 
had  recognized,  instinctively,  as  her  real  enemy. 
It  had  been  thought  of  her,  alone,  which  had  made 
her  bear  the  weary  burden  of  the  bundle  on  the 
long  journey  from  the  mountains.  "I'd  like  to  fix 
a  little,  'fore  she  comes.  I  got  some  idees  o'  fashion 
from  her,  when  she  was  up  thar,  an'  I  been  workin' 
ev'ry  minute  I  could  spare,  since  then,  on  a  new 
dress.  Ain't  thar  some  place  I  can  go  to  fashion 
up  before  they  come?" 

The  old  negro  was  acutely  sympathetic.  He  dis- 
liked Miss  Barbara  and  liked  the  mountain  girl. 
His  old  black  head,  thick  as  it  was,  sometimes,  had 
quickly  recognized  the  fact  that  Barbara  regarded 
Madge  as  one  to  be  despised,  humiliated,  while  his 
master  treated  her  with  much  consideration  and 
thought  highly  of  her.  He  did  not  like  the  daugh- 
ter of  Horace  Holton  any  better  than  he  liked  the 
man  himself.  If  he  could  help  the  mountain  girl 
he  would.  The  only  place  where  she  could  possi- 
bly find  privacy,  without  going  to  the  house,  was  in 
the  stable  with  the  race-horse.  He  would  have 
trusted  no  one  else  on  earth  with  her;  to  distrust 
Madge,  however,  did  not  once  occur  to  him. 

"Missy,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  reckon  you  can  go 
right  in  dar  wid  Queen  Bess." 

She  was  a  bit  appalled.  "Maybe  she  wouldn't 
like  it,"  she  objected. 

"She  won't  keer  if  you  don't  go  too  close." 

243 


/Ar  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"I'm  kinder  'feared." 

"Don't  gib  her  no  chance  to  kick.  You's  all 
right,  den." 

"Kick!"  said  the  girl,  amazed.  Kicking  did  not 
seem  to  her  to  fit  the  character  of  queens. 

Neb  unlocked  the  stable  door.  "Or  bite,"  he 
added. 

"Bite!  Dellaw!"  the  girl  exclaimed,  still  more 
amazed.  How  little  she  had  learned  of  royalty  up 
in  the  mountains! 

The  aged  negro  threw  the  door  wide  open.  "Go 
in,  honey,  now;  go  in,"  he  said. 

"I'm  skeered!"  she  said,  and  tiptoed  to  the 
stable  door.  She  peered  in  cautiously.  Then  she 
turned  and  faced  him  with  much-puzzled  eyes.  "I 
don't  see  nothin'  but  a  hoss,"  she  said. 

"Uh-huh;  dat's  Queen  Bess."  Old  Neb  stood 
chuckling,  looking  at  her. 

"Queen  Bess  is  Mister  Frank's  race-hoss!"  she 
cried,  delighted  by  the  revelation.  "Well,  now,  I 
feel  to  home."  She  went  into  the  stable  with  her 
bundle,  half-closed  the  door  and  then  peeped  out 
at  Neb.  "You  won't  let  any  one  come  in?" 

He  held  the  key  up  reassuringly.  "Don't  you 
see  I's  got  de  key,  honey?" 

"I'd  feel  safer  if  I  had  that  key  myself,"  said 
she,  and  snatched  it  from  him.  An  instant  later 
and  the  door  was  closed  and  locked  on  the  inside. 

Neb  was  alarmed.  He  had  disobeyed  plain  or- 
ders in  letting  her  go  in  at  all.  For  him  to  let 

244 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


that  key  out  of  his  possession  was  a  further  viola- 
tion which  he  feared  to  be  responsible  for.  He 
pounded  on  the  door.  "Open  de  doah,  honey," 
he  implored.  "I  mus'  hab  dat  key!" 

"All  right,"  said  she,  "soon's  I  am  dressed." 

He  fell  back  from  the  door  dismayed.  "De 
Lawd  help  me !"  he  groaned.  "What's  I  gwine  ter 
do?  An'  I  war  so  mighty  firm  'bout  dat  key  wid 
Marse  Holton!"  He  paced  the  space  before  the 
stable  door  in  agitation.  "But  I  reckon  she'll  be 
t'rough  befo'  Marse  Frank  comes,"  he  comforted 
himself. 

She  was  not,  though.  While  Neb  still  paced  the 
stable  yard  in  acute  worry,  Frank,  Miss  Alathea, 
Barbara  and  Holton  came  toward  him  in  a  laugh- 
ing group.  He  almost  fainted. 

"Here  we  are,  Neb,"  his  master  cried,  "ready 
for  a  look  at  Queen  Bess." 

"Yessah,  yessah,  pwesently!"  Neb  stammered, 
and  would  have  paled  had  nature  made  provision 
for  such  exhibition  of  his  feelings.  "I  jus'  nach- 
elly  hab  got  to  speak  to  dem  ar  stable  boys  a  min- 
ute, fust.  Jus'  'scuse  me  fo'  a  minute,  suh."  He 
vanished  hurriedly,  hoping  that  by  this  diversion 
he  could  gain  a  little  time  for  Madge  and  for  him- 
self. 

Layson  gazed  after  him  with  some  astonishment, 
then  went  and  tried  the  stable  door.  "Of  course 
the  door's  locked,"  he  explained,  annoyed,  "but  he'll 
be  back  here  in  a  minute." 

245 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Miss  Alathea  smiled.  The  attitude  of  the  young 
master  toward  the  aged  negro  often  was  amusing 
to  her.  She  liked  to  watch  the  constant  evidence 
of  that  rare  affection  which  formed  an  insepara- 
ble bond  between  them. 

Suddenly  she  heard  the  crunching  of  a  man's 
heavy  footsteps  on  the  gravel,  back  of  them.  Turn- 
ing, she  saw  that  the  newcomer  was  the  Colonel, 
and  the  Colonel  in  great  haste.  This  was  most 
impressive,  for  the  Colonel  did  not  often  hurry. 

"Here  comes  the  Colonel,  Frank,"  she  said,  "and 
see  how  he  is  hurrying!" 

"Something's  up,"  her  nephew  answered,  "when 
the  Colonel  hurries."  Then,  as  the  horseman  came 
up  to  them:  "Why,  Colonel,  what's  the  matter?" 

"A  shock!  A  regular  shock!  As  I  came  from 
Lexington,  just  now,  I  saw  you  standing  here,  so  I 
sent  the  boy  on  with  the  buggy  and  cut  across  to 
meet  you.  Just  as  I  passed  the  thicket  by  the 
spring  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  man,  who  then  van- 
ished like  a  ghost,  but  I  swear  that  man  was  that 
lank  mountaineer,  Joe  Lorey,  and  that  he  tried  to 
keep  out  of  my  sight." 

"Joe  Lorey!"  Frank  exclaimed.  "What  can  he 
want  down  here?" 

"Who  knows?  Maybe  to  finish  the  work  he 
began  in  the  mountains." 

"More  than  likely,"  Holton  ventured.  "A  rifle- 
shot in  the  back,  or  a  match  touched  to  a  build- 
ing." 

246 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"I  don't  believe  it,'  Frank  said  stoutly.  "The 
man  who  laid  down  his  weapons  to  give  me  a  fair, 
square  fight,  wouldn't  stoop  to  things  like  that." 

"  Tears  to  me  the  man  who  fired  that  bomb 
'u'd  do  most  anythin',''  said  Holton. 

"That  was  in  a  fit  of  anger.  Lorey  swore  to 
Madge  that  he  thought  better  of  his  impulse  to  do 
murder,  stamped  upon  the  burning  fuse,  and  be- 
lieved that  he  had  put  it  out,  and  I  believe  him." 

He  saw,  now,  that  his  aunt  was  badly  fright- 
ened, and  cautioned  the  other  men.  "Not  another 
word  about  him,  now,  at  any  rate,  or  Aunt  'Lethe 
won't  once  close  her  eyes  to-night." 

"Well,"  said  the  Colonel,  quite  agreeing  with  him 
and  hastening  to  change  the  subject,  "here's  some- 
thing much  more  interesting,  anyway.  A  letter 
from  the  Company.  Looks  official  and  important." 

Frank  took  the  letter,  opened  it  and  gazed  at  it 
in  some  dismay.  "I  should  think  so,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "An  assessment  of  $15,000  on  my 
stock." 

"Fifteen  thousand  devils!" 

"No;  fifteen  thousand  dollars." 

The  Colonel  took  the  letter  from  his  hand  and 
looked  at  it»  with  worried  eyes.  "And  you've  got 
to  meet  it,  Frank,  or  lose  what  you've  put  in." 

Miss  Alathea  went  to  her  nephew  anxiously. 
"You'll  sell  Queen  Bess,  now,  won't  you?"  she  im- 
plored. "You  could  pay  it  then.  Best  sell  her." 

The  young  man   stood  there,   deep  in  worried 

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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


thought.  "If  I  were  quite  convinced  of  the  Com- 
pany's good  faith  in  everything,  I'd  risk  it  all,  even 
the  loss  of  Woodlawn,  my  old  home,"  he  answered. 

Neb  now  appeared  from  around  a  corner  of  the 
stable,  evidently  having  decided  that  the  girl  had 
had  enough  time  for  her  toilet,  or  afraid  to  wait 
another  minute.  His  appearance  created  a  diver- 
sion. 

"Here,  Neb,"  said  Frank,  "we've  had  enough 
nonsense.  Let's  see  Queen  Bess,  now." 

Neb  looked  anxiously  for  signs  that  Madge  was 
ready  to  see  visitors,  he  listened  at  the  door.  He 
saw  no  sign,  he  heard  no  signal.  He  was  scared, 
but  he  was  faithful  to  his  promise  to  the  girl.  He 
planted  his  old  back  against  the  door.  "Now  de 
trouble  am  commencin' !"  he  assured  himself. 

Holton  looked  at  him  with  a  sour  smile.  "I 
hope,"  he  said  to  Frank,  "that  you'll  have  better 
luck  nor  me.  Neb  wouldn't  open  that  door  for 
me." 

"Dem  was  yo'  ohduhs,  suh,"  said  Neb,  appeal- 
ing to  his  master. 

"An'  he  was  powerful  sassy  in  the  bargain," 
Holton  went  on,  full  of  malice,  hoping  to  make 
Neb  suffer  for  defying  him. 

Layson,  however,  much  as  he  was  now  annoyed 
by  the  old  darky's  hesitation  about  opening  the 
stable  door  for  him,  himself,  did  not  propose  to 
chide  him  for  having  kept  his  trust  and  held  it 
closed  to  others.  "You  mustn't  mind  Neb,"  he  said 

248 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


to  Holton.  "He's  a  privileged  character  around 
here.  I  had  told  him  to  admit  no  one,  and,  as 
usual,  he  obeyed  my  orders  blindly." 

"Yes,  suh,"  Neb  declared,  delighted,  "went  it 
blind,  suh." 

"His  obedience,"  his  master  went  on  boastingly, 
"is  really  phenomenal.  He  wouldn't  open  that 
door  for  anybody.  He'd  guard  the  key  with  his 
own  life."  He  turned  to  Neb.  "Wouldn't  you, 
now,  Neb?" 

Neb  was  disconcerted.  It  was  true  enough  that 
from  most  people  he  certainly  would  have  guarded 
that  key  with  his  life.  But  at  that  moment  there 
was  one  within  the  stable  from  whom  he  had  not 
guarded  it.  "Yes — yessah!"  he  said  hesitantly. 
And  as  he  said  it  he  would  have  given  anything 
he  had  if  he  could  have  laid  his  hands  upon  that 
self-same  key. 

Frank  smiled  at  him.  "But  I  suppose  you'll  let 
me  have  a  look  at  her." 

"Yes — yessuh — in  a — in  a  minute,  suh." 

Layson  was  annoyed.  "Why  not  at  once?"  He 
was  beginning  to  be  frightened.  Could  something 
Neb  was  trying  to  hide  have  happened  to  the  mare  ? 

"Bekase — bekase — • — "  Ned  stammered,  "well, 
to  tell  de  trufe,  suh,  bekase  I  is  afeared  she  ain't 
quite  dressed." 

"Not  dressed!  The  mare  not  dressed!  Have 
you  lost  your  senses?  Open  that  door — quick!' 

"Marse  Frank,  I  cain't.     I  nachully  jus'  cain't" 

249 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Holton  was  enjoying  this.  "You  see,"  he  said, 
"he  won't  open  it  for  nobody.  Not  even  for  th' 
man  as  owns  it  an'  th'  mare  behind  it." 

"Give  me  the  key!"  said  Frank. 

"De  key — de  key "  Neb  stammered. 

"I  said  the  key!" 

The  old  negro  advanced  pitifully.  "Fo'  de  lawd, 
Marse  Frank,  I  hasn't  got  it !" 

"He'd  guard  it  with  his  life !"  said  Holton,  with 
deep  sarcasm. 

"Where  is  it  ?"  Frank  demanded. 

"In  dar,"  said  Neb,  and  pointed  to  the  stable. 

Layson,  astonished  and  annoyed  beyond  the 
power  of  words  by  the  old  negro's  strange  per- 
formance, fearful  of  the  safety  of  his  mare,  en- 
tirely puzzled,  sprang  toward  the  stable  window 
and  was  about  to  pull  himself  up  by  the  ledge  so 
that  he  might  look  in. 

Neb  seized  him  and  pulled  him  from  the  aper- 
ture with  a  desperate  agility  which  strained  his 
aged  limbs.  "Fo'  de  Lawd's  sake,  now,  Marse 
Frank,"  he  cried,  "don't  yo'  dare  look  t'rough  dat 
stable  winder!" 

Frank,  now,  was  badly  frightened.  "Is  there 
some  one  in  there  with  Queen  Bess?"  he  asked. 

"A  young  pusson  to  see  you,  suh,"  Neb  ad- 
mitted. 

"And  you  let  that  person  have  the  key?" 

"No,  suh;  it  were  taken  from  me." 

Layson  was  in  panic.     "Heaven  knows,"  he  ex- 

250 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


claimed,  "what  can  have  happened  here!"  He 
rushed  to  the  stable  door  and  pounded  on  it  with 
his  fists.  "Open  at  once,  or  I'll  break  in  the  door," 
he  cried. 

Neb,  now,  had  gone  up  to  the  window  and  looked 
through  it  with  desperate  glance.  What  he  saw 
was  reassuring.  He  turned  back  toward  his  mas- 
ter smiling.  "Hoi'  on,  Marse  Frank,  de  young 
pusson  am  a-comin'  out,"  he  said. 

"Well,"  said  Layson,  threateningly,  "I'm  ready 
for  him."  He  braced  himself  to  spring  upon  some 
malefactor. 

The  door  opened  and  Madge  appeared  before 
their  astonished  eyes,  garbed  in  a  gown  which  she 
had  fashioned  after  that  which  Barbara  had  worn 
up  in  the  hills. 

"Madge!"  cried  Frank,  amazed. 

The  Colonel,  laughing,  approached  the  girl  with 
outstretched  hand ;  Neb,  relieved,  dived  through  the 
stable  door;  Miss  Alathea,  who  had  been  under  a 
great  strain  while  the  dramatic  little  scene  had  been 
in  progress,  dropped  limply  on  Neb's  bench. 

Madge,  with  a  retentive  memory  of  the  way 
Miss  "Barbarous"  had  greeted  her  back  in  the 
mountains,  stepped  toward  that  much-astonished 
maiden,  opened  her  red  parasol  straight  in  her  face, 
and  courtesied  to  the  rest. 

"Howdy,  folks;  howdy!"  she  said,  happily. 


251 


CHAPTER  XIII 

The  party  stood,  nonplussed.  Frank  was  first 
to  show  signs  of  recovery,  and,  after  a  moment  of 
completely  dazed  astonishment,  advanced  to  Madge 
with  hand  outstretched.  Her  appearance,  astonish- 
ing as  it  had  been,  had  been  as  great  a  relief  as  he 
had  ever  known  in  all  his  life.  Neb's  worry  and 
insubordination  had  filled  him  with  the  keenest  ap- 
prehension. But  he  had  no  doubts  of  Madge. 
If  she  had  been  there  with  the  mare,  the  mare  was 
certainly  all  right,  no  matter  how  puzzling  the  af- 
fair might  seem  to  be  upon  its  surface. 

"Why,  little  one,  this  is,  indeed,  a  great  surprise 
and  pleasure !"  he  exclaimed,  with  sincere  gallantry. 

Madge  looked  at  him  with  doubtful  eyes,  from 
which  the  doubt,  however,  was  fast  clearing.  "Oh, 
say;  are  you-uns  r'ally  glad  to  see  me?" 

"No  one  could  be  more  welcome,"  he  assured 
her,  and  the  honest  pleasure  in  his  eyes  convinced 
her  that  he  did  not  speak  for  mere  politeness'  sake. 

And  now  Miss  Alathea,  recovering  from  the 
shock  of  all  that  had  preceded  the  girl's  unexpected 

252 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


appearance,  went  to  her  cordially.  "We  are  more 
than  glad,  my  chilJ,"  she  told  her. 

"Glad's  no  name  for  it,"  the  gallant  Colonel 
said,  advancing  in  his  turn. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  of  the  sincerity  of  any 
one  who,  thus  far,  had  expressed  a  welcome  for 
her;  but  the  voice  which  now  came  coldly  from 
Miss  Barbara  was  less  convincing.  She  did  not 
approach  the  mountain  girl,  but  sat  somewhat  su- 
perciliously upon  a  bench  and  spoke  frigidly.  "It 
is  an  unexpected  pleasure." 

Madge,  not  trained  to  hide  her  feelings  under 
softened  words,  turned  on  her  angrily.  "Humph! 
I  wasn't  askin'  you,"  she  said.  Then,  to  the  oth- 
ers: "I  didn't  know  but  what  my  droppin'  in, 
permiskus  like " 

"A  Kentuckian's  friends,"  said  Frank,  "are  al- 
ways welcome." 

"Friends  from  the  word  go,  remember,"  said 
the  Colonel. 

"Thankee,  Colonel,"  said  the  girl.  "We'll  have 
that  race,  some  day;  but  I  won't  ride  agin  you  if 
you  ride  Queen  Bess.  Oh,  wouldn't  I  like  to  see 
her  go!" 

"So  you  shall,"  said  Frank.  "Neb,  is  she 
ready?" 

"Yessuh;  all  saddled,  sur,  an'  bridled." 

"Oh,  let  me  bring  her  out,"  cried  Madge.  "I'd 
love  to." 

"Lawsy,  honey,"  said  the  negro,  "you  couldn't 

253 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


bring  her  out.  She's  dat  fretful  an'  dat  nervous 
dat  she'd  kill  yo',  suah." 

"Get  out,  Neb!"  Madge  cried,  scornfully.  "I 
ain't  afeard  of  her.  Wild  things  allays  has  made 
friends  with  me.  I've  never  seen  a  horse  so  skeery 
that  I  couldn't  manage  him — couldn't  make  him 
foller  me." 

She  pushed  the  hesitating  Neb  out  of  her  path 
and  went  into  the  stable. 

Layson,  who  was  for  the  moment,  at  a  distance, 
had  not  heard  all  her  talk  with  Neb,  but  saw  her 
as  she  went  into  the  stall  where  none  but  he,  him- 
self, and  Neb,  dared  go,  and  it  was  stable  talk 
that,  soon  or  late,  Queen  Bess  would  prove  to  be 
a  man  killer! 

"Neb,  stop  her!     She'll  be  killed!"  he  cried. 

Neb  ran,  as  fast  as  his  old  legs  would  carry  him, 
into  the  stable ;  Frank  hurried  to  the  stable  door. 

"Madge !  Madge !"  he  cried,  and  then :  "Why — 
look!  The  mare  is  following  her  as  might  a  kit- 
ten!" 

He  stepped  aside  and  Madge  came  from  the 
stable  with  Queen  Bess  behind  her,  ears  pricked 
forward  eagerly  as  she  kept  her  eyes  on  Madge's 
pursed  up,  cooing  lips,  head  dropped,  neck  stretched 
in  graceful  fashion,  lifting  her  dainty  feet  as 
proudly  as  ever  did  the  queen  whom  she  was 
named  for. 

"Come  on,  you  beauty!"  the  girl  cried.     "Oh,  it 


254 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


would  be  like  heaven  to  ride  you;  and  I  could  do 
it,  too!" 

"Take  her  to  the  track,  Neb,"  Layson  ordered. 
"I'll  follow  and  give  her  her  exercise." 

Madge,  unable  to  resist  the  impulse  which  was 
thrilling  her  with  longing,  motioned  Neb  away  as 
he  approached  to  take  the  mare.  "Go  'way!  Go 
'way!"  she  said.  Then,  to  the  mare:  "Come  on, 
you  dear,  come  on."  She  went  on  slowly,  while 
the  mare,  in  calm  docility,  trailed  after  her.  The 
spectators,  who  knew  the  beast,  gazed  spellbound. 

Constantly  the  girl's  pleased  eyes  were  on  the 
beautiful  creature  following.  Never  had  she  seen 
so  perfect  an  animal;  never  had  she  known  one 
giving  such  plain  signs  of  high  intelligence.  The 
mare's  big  eyes,  broad  forehead,  delicate  muzzle, 
arching  neck,  strong  withers,  mighty  flanks,  and 
slender  ankles  marked  her,  to  the  veriest  novice,  a 
thoroughbred  of  thoroughbreds;  her  docile  and 
obedient  march  showed  what  seemed  like  an  almost 
magic  power  in  the  delighted  mountain  maid. 
Every  drop  of  blood  in  the  girl's  body  tingled  with 
excitement,  all  her  muscles  thrilled  with  mad  de- 
sire to  mount  the  wondrous  beast  and  be  away  as 
on  the  wind's  wings.  She  could  imagine  what  the 
mare's  long  strides  would  be,  she  could  imagine 
how  exhilerating  she  would  find  the  steady,  perfect 
motion  of  the  mighty  back. 

"Oh,  I  can't  stand  it !"  she  exclaimed,  at  length. 
"I've  got  to  do  it!" 

255 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


She  paused,  and  eagerly  the  mare  stepped  up  to 
her,  nuzzleing  her  caressing  hand.  Then,  with  a 
bound,  the  girl  was  on  the  graceful  creature's  back, 
landing  in  her  place  as  lightly  as  a  wind-blown 
thistle-down,  as  gracefully  as  a  fairy  horsewoman. 

"Heavens!"  cried  Barbara.  "She's  on  Queen 
Bess!" 

"She'll  be  killed!"  Miss  Alathea  screamed,  in 
terror. 

The  Colonel,  only,  recognized  her  instantly  as  a 
born  horsewoman.  His  expert  eye  observed  with 
rare  delight  the  ease  with  which  she  mounted,  the 
perfect  poise  with  which  she  found  her  seat,  the 
absolute  adjustment  of  her  lithe  young  motions 
to  the  movements  of  the  mare  beneath  her  from  the 
very  moment  she  had  reached  her  back. 

"No  danger;  she  rides  like  a  centaur." 

With  the  others  he  had  stopped,  with  eyes  for 
nothing  but  the  girl  before  them  and  the  splendid 
animal  she  rode.  "Ah,  what  a  jockey  she  would 
make!" 

Barbara  liked  this  exhibition  of  the  mountain 
girl's  abilities  no  better  than  she  had  liked  any- 
thing which  Madge  had  done.  Her  lip  curled 
somewhat  scornfully.  "What  a  pity  that  her  sex 
should  bar  her  from  that  vocation!"  she  said 
coldly. 

She  turned  to  Frank,  who  was  watching  Madge 
with  startled  eyes,  worried  as  to  the  result  of  this 
mad  prank  on  both  the  girl  and  mare. 

256 


OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Frank,"  said  Barbara,  "what  a  figure  she  \vill 
make  to-night  at  your  lawn-party !  How  your 
friends  will  laugh  at  her!" 

Layson  cast  a  quick,  sharp  glance  at  her.  She 
was  not  advancing  her  own  cause  by  trying,  thus, 
to  ridicule  the  mountain  maiden.  "I'll  run  the 
risk,"  he  said.  "She  is  my  guest,  you  know,  and, 
as  such,  will  surely  be  given  every  consideration 
and  courtesy  by  all." 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  Barbara,  seeing  that  she 
had  gone,  perhaps,  too  far.  "If  you  wish  it.  I 
should  be  glad  to  please  you,  once  again." 

"Nothing  could  please  me  more  than  to  have 
you  show  her  what  kindnesses  you  can.  I  know 
she  will  feel  strange  and  worried." 

Madge,  sitting  Queen  Bess  with  an  ease  and 
grace  which  that  intelligent  mare  had  never  found 
in  any  other  rider,  and,  now,  far  from  them  at  the 
other  end  of  the  great  training-field,  absorbed  the 
youth's  delighted  glances. 

"Can't  you  forget  her  for  an  instant?"  exclaimed 
Barbara.  "You  haven't  been  at  all  the  same  since 
you  came  back  from  the  mountains!  Once  we 
were  always  together.  Now  I  never  see  you  unless 
I  come  over  here;  and  no  matter  what  I  do,  you 
don't  seem  to  care." 

Layson  was  uneasy.  He  had  been  aware,  for  a 
long  time,  that,  sooner  or  later,  a  complete  under- 
standing of  his  changed  feelings  toward  this  girl, 
must,  in  some  way,  be  accomplished.  Now  seemed 

257 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


a  good  time  for  it,  yet  he  hesitated  at  the  thought 
of  it.  But  the  thing  had  to  be  gone  through  with. 
"I  know  I  used  to  play  the  tyrant,  Barbara;  but  it 
wasn't  a  pleasant  role,  and  I  was  always  half- 
ashamed  of  it." 

The  girl  flared  into  a  passion.  "What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"Barbara,  I  have  had  no  right  to  go  so  far,  no 
right  to  ask  so  much  of  you.  From  the  bottom  of 
my  heart  I  beg  forgiveness.  Let  us  forget  it  all 
and  just  be  friends  again."  And,  even  as  he  spoke, 
his  eyes  were  wandering  toward  the  girl  whom 
Queen  Bess  had  so  utterly  surrendered  to.  The 
mare,  known  since  she  had  first  been  saddled,  as  a 
terror  to  all  riders,  was  carrying  her  as  gently  as 
the  veriest  country  hack  had  ever  borne  an  old  lady 
from  the  farm  to  market. 

Barbara  saw  where  his  attention  was,  and  resent- 
ment thrilled  her.  "Friends  ?  Never !  Frank  Lay- 
son,  I  believe  I  hate  you!" 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  he,  plainly  not  too  much 
impressed,  "if  you  want  to  be  unreasonable,  why, 
of  course " 

The  girl  was  frightened  at  the  length  to  which 
she  had  permitted  her  ill-temper  to  carry  her.  "Oh, 
no,  Frank,"  she  hastily  corrected,  "I  didn't  mean 
that.  Of  course  I  am  your  friend." 

"Thank  you,  Barbara,"  said  he,  with  a  calmness 
which  was  maddening  to  her.  "I  am  sure  we  un- 
derstand each  other,  now."  And  then,  still  further 

258 


maddening  her:  "I  must  go  now,  and  look  after 
Madge  and  dear  Queen  Bess.  I  never  should  for- 
give myself  if  anything  should  happen  to  the  girl. 
But  nothing  will.  See  how  splendidly  she  rides!" 

The  girl  upon  the  horse,  as  if  conscious  of  his 
anxiety  about  her,  now  turned  her  mount  back  to- 
ward the  field-end  where  the  onlookers  were  loosely 
grouped  and  came  toward  them  at  a  slow  and  gen- 
tle canter — a  gait  which  none  had  ever  seen  Queen 
Bess  take  before,  when  a  stranger  was  upon  her 
back.  She  leaped  from  the  mare  by  Layson's  side, 
and  Neb,  ever  anxious  for  the  welfare  of  his  equine 
darling,  began  work  without  delay  at  rubbing 
Queen  Bess  down. 

"Reckon  you'll  never  forgive  me,"  Madge  apolo- 
gized to  Layson,  "but  I  just  couldn't  help  it.  Never 
even  saw  a  mare  like  her,  afore.  My  pony's  no- 
whar  alongside  of  her.  I  felt  like  an  angel  sittin' 
on  a  cloud  an'  sailin'  straight  to  heaven!"  She 
turned  and  petted  the  black  beauty.  "Oh,  you 
darling!" 

"Got  to  take  her  in,  now,"  Neb  said,  preparing 
to  lead  the  mare  away.  He  spoke  apologetically  as 
if  the  girl  had  rights  which,  now,  should  be  con- 
sulted. He  had  never  made  a  like  concession  in 
the  past  to  anyone  except  his  master. 

"Go  'way,  go  'way,"  said  Madge,  taking  the  reins 
from  his  black  hand.  "Ain't  no  use  o'  leadin'  her 
• — you  jest  watch  her  foller  me!" 

She  looped  the  reins  about  the  mare's  arched 

259 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


neck,  started  off,  and,  without  so  much  as  flicking 
her  long  tail,  Queen  Bess  fell  in  behind,  obedient 
to  her  cooing,  murmurous  calls. 

Frank  laughed.  "If,"  he  said  to  the  whole  party, 
-'you  wish  to  have  a  look  at  the  mare's  quarters,  I 
think  Neb  will  now  admit  us." 

All  but  the  Colonel  started  toward  the  stable, 
but  he  hesitated,  looking  toward  Miss  Alathea. 
While  the  others  had  been  spellbound  by  the  girl 
and  horse,  he,  the  most  enthusiastic  horseman  of 
them  all,  had  been  divided  in  attention  between 
them  and  the  lady  whose  notice  he  attracted,  now, 
by  means  of  sundry  hems  and  haws. 

"Miss  'Lethe,  just  a  moment,"  he  said  softly. 
She  paused  and  then  went  up  to  him.  He  held 
out  a  newspaper,  suddenly  at  a  loss  for  words,  now 
that  there  was  a  prospect  of  a  moment  with  her 
wholly  uninterrupted.  "Here,"  said  he,  a  little 
panicky,  "is  a  full  account  of  the  revival,  sermon 
and  all.  Make  your  hair  stand  on  end  to  read  it." 

She  took  the  paper,  undeceived  by  his  small  sub- 
terfuge to  gain  attention,  but  interested,  as  she  al- 
ways was  in  such  things,  in  the  account  of  the  re- 
vival. "This  really  is  interesting."  She  sat  down 
on  the  bench,  as  they  reached  the  stable-yard  again, 
and  pored  above  the  newspaper. 

In  the  meantime  the  Colonel  tried  to  screw  his 
courage  to  the  sticking  point.  "Colonel  Sandusky 
Doolittle,"  he  adjured  himself,  "if  you  don't  say 
it  now,  then  you  forever  hold  your  peace,  that's 

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all!"  He  went  to  his  buggy,  which  had  been 
brought  to  the  stable  yard,  and  from  underneath 
its  seat  took  a  box  containing  a  bouquet  of  sweet, 
old-fashioned  flowers.  Miss  Alathea,  absorbed  in 
the  account  of  the  revival,  did  not  notice  him  at  all. 
"This  will  do  the  business,"  he  reflected.  "Now, 
Sandusky  Doolittle,  keep  cool,  keep  cool!"  Nerv- 
ously, as  he  gazed  at  her,  his  fingers  worked  among 
the  flowers,  dismembering  them  unconsciously.  "A 
Kentucky  Colonel,"  he  was  saying  to  himself  in 
scorn,  "afraid  of  a  woman!"  His  fingers  tore  the 
flowers  with  new  activity  as  his  nervousness  in- 
creased, making  sad  work  with  the  magnificent  bou- 
quet. "Of  course  she  is  an  angel,"  he  reflected, 
and  then,  with  a  grim  humor,  "or  will  be  before  I 
ask  her,  if  I  wait  another  twenty  years!  But  I 
shall  ask  her,  I  shall  ask  her !"  He  stepped  toward 
her  boldly,  but  paused  before  her  in  a  wordless 
panic  when  he  had  approached  within  a  yard. 
"Heavens!"  he  thought.  "My  heart  is  going  at  a 
one-forty  gait  and  the  jockey's  lost  the  reins.  I'll 
be  over  the  fence  in  another  minute  if  I  don't  hold 
tight!  But  I  have  got  to  do  it,  this  time."  He 
dropped  the  stems  of  the  flowers,  still  bound  to- 
gether by  their  lengths  of  wide  white  ribbon,  into 
the  elaborate  box  from  which,  so  lately,  he  had 
taken  them  in  their  uninjured  beauty,  not  noting 
the  sad  wreck  which  his  too  nervous  fingers  had 
produced,  put  on  the  cover  and  approached  still 
nearer.  With  the  box  held  toward  her  bashfully, 

261 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


he  managed,  then,  another  step  or  two.  "Miss 
'Lethe,"  he  said  stammering,  "lawn  party  to-night 
— bouquet  for  you — brought  it  from  Lexington — 
for  you — for  you,  you  know." 

The  Colonel  never  was  embarrassed  save  when 
he  was  endeavoring  to  propose  marriage  to  Miss 
Alathea  and  he  always  was  embarrassed  then.  She 
recognized  the  situation  from  the  mere  tone  of  his 
voice  and  looked  up  hopefully. 

"Oh,  Colonel,  how  kind!"  said  she,  as  she  held 
delighted  hands  out  for  the  box.  "I  know  it  is 
beautiful." 

"It  was  quite  the  best  I  could  do,  Miss  'Lethe," 
said  the  Colonel. 

"You  have  such  splendid  taste!  I'm  sure  it's 
lovely."  She  opened  the  box  and  looked,  expect- 
antly, within.  "Why,  Colonel,"  she  cried,  disap- 
pointed, "where  are — where  are  the  flowers?" 

"Why — why — why,"  he  stammered,  and  then 
saw  the  mutilated  blossoms  on  the  ground  around 
him.  "Why,  I  don't  know — don't  know,"  said  he. 
"Don't  ask  me." 

She  was  rummaging  among  the  stems,  non- 
plussed. "Why,  here's  a  note!"  she  said. 

"Thank  heaven!"  the  Colonel  thought,  "the 
note's  there  yet!"  Then,  growing  bold:  "Miss 
'Lethe,  if  you've  a  kindly  feeling  for  me  in  your 
heart,  read  that  note;  but  don't  you  get  excited; 
keep  cool,  keep  cool!" 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  she.     "I  see  no  cause  for 

262 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


excitement."  She  unfolded  the  note  and  read, 
aloud,  and  very  slowly,  for  the  Colonel's  hand 
was  not  too  easy  to  decipher.  "  'My  dear,  dear 
Miss  'Lethe :  Woman  without  her  man  is  a  sav- 
age.' '  She  looked  up,  naturally  astonished  by  this 
unusual  statement.  "Why,  Colonel,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "what  can  you  mean  by  saying  woman  is 
a  savage  without  her  man?" 

He  stood  appalled  for  just  a  second  and  then 
realized  the  error  into  which  his  ardor  had  misled 
him.  "Great  Scott !"  he  cried.  "I  forgot  to  put  in 
the  commas  !  It  ought  to  read  this  way :  'Woman, 
without  her,  man  is  a  savage.'  Go  on,  Miss  'Lethe, 
please  go  on." 

She  read  again :  "  'I  feel  that  it  is  time  for  me 
to  become  civilized — in  other  words,  to  come  in  out 
of  the  wet.  To  me  you  have  been,  for  twenty 
years,  the  embodiment  of  woman's  truth,  purity 
and  goodness.  But  constitutional  timidity  and 
chronic  financial  depression,  due  to  the  race-track, 
have  hitherto  kept  me  silent.' '  Miss  'Lethe  looked 
up  at  him  with  a  strange  expression  on  her  face. 
"Colonel,"  she  exclaimed,  "what  does  this  mean?" 

"Go  on,  Miss  'Lethe,"  was  the  answer,  "please 
go  on,  go  on."  He  made  a  mighty  effort  to  secure 
control  of  his  unruly  nerves,  and,  almost  uncon- 
sciously, while  her  head  was  bent  above  the  note, 
took  a  small  flask  from  his  pocket  and  imbibed 
from  it.  It  steadied  him. 
.  She  read  again :  "  'I  am  convinced  that  my  in- 

263 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


terest  in  the  company  will  yield  me  a  competence; 
accordingly,  behold  me  at  your  feet !' ' 

Miss  'Lethe  looked  down  somewhat  mischiev- 
ously. She  did  not  see  the  Colonel  where  his  note 
declared  he  would  be.  She  glanced  again  at  the 
paper  in  her  hands  and  saw  a  word  which,  at  first, 
had  quite  escaped  attention.  "  'Metaphorically,' ' 
she  read,  and  then  the  signature :  "  'Colonel  San- 
dusky  Doolittle.'" 

"Colonel!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Miss  'Lethe,"  he  replied,  and,  discovering  that 
the  flask  was  still  in  plain  view  in  his  hand,  slipped 
it  into  his  sidepocket  upside  down. 

"Colonel,  put  that  bottle  right  side  up  and  listen 
to  me,"  she  said  calmly.  "Do  you  really  love  me?" 

"Do  I  love  you?  With  a  fervor — er — a — pas- 
sion— er — will  you  excuse  me  if  I  smoke?"  He 
took  a  black  cigar  from  his  vest  pocket,  in  another 
effort  to  control  his  nerves,  and  lighted  it  as  might 
an  automatic  smoker. 

"I  am  going  to  put  you  to  the  proof,"  said  she. 
"Could  you,  for  my  sake,  come  down  from  ten 
cigars  a  day  to  five?" 

The  Colonel  was  dismayed.  "To  five  cigars  a 
day!  Impossible!"  He  caught  himself.  That 
scarcely  was  the  way  to  answer  the  request  of  the 
woman  he  adored  so  fervently.  "I  mean,"  he 
hastily  corrected,  "is — is  that  all?"  He  made  a 
motion  as  if  to  throw  away  the  weed  he  had  just 


264 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


lighted,  but  thought  better  of  it.  "I  will  make 
the  descent  to-morrow,"  he  said  earnestly. 

"Could  you  restrict  yourself  to  three  mint-julips, 
daily?" 

"Three!  A  man  couldn't  live  on  three!  He'd 
have  to — have  to  take  such  poisons  as — as  cold 
water  into  his  system." 

"Remember,  Colonel,  I  would  mix  them." 

"That  settles  it!  Three  goes!"  He  fervently 
reached  toward  her,  plainly  planning  to  embrace 
her. 

"Wait,  Colonel,"  she  exclaimed,  "there  is  one 
more  condition.  "Could  you,  for  my  sake,  promise 
never  to  enter  another  race-track?" 

He  started  back  from  her  in  horror.  "Never 
enter  another  race-tack !  I,  Colonel  Sandusky  Doo- 
little,  known  everywhere,  from  Maine  to  California, 
as  a  plunger,  give  up  the  absorbing  passion  of  my 
life!" 

"Remember  what  you  said  to  Frank,"  said  she. 
"  'It's  a  delusion  and  a  snare.'  But,  of  course,  if 
you  think  more  of  a  delusion  than  you  do  of 
me " 

"No;  hang  it!"  cried  the  Colonel,  "I  think  more 
of  you.  Twenty  years — the  longest  race  on  record 
and  a  win  in  sight!  I'll  not  lose  by  a  balk  at  the 
finish!  I  promise  you,  Miss  'Lethe,  on  the  honor 
of  a  Kentuckian." 

"Then,  Colonel,  I  must  confess,  I  have  loved 


265 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


you,  also,  for  every  one  of  those  long  twenty 
years." 

"Twenty  years!"  He  turned  his  head  aside  and 
muttered:  "What  a  damned  fool  I  have  been!" 
Then,  to  her,  he  said,  exultantly:  "Aha!  A  neck 
ahead!" 

It  is  difficult  to  say  what  would  have  happened, 
then,  if  Madge,  Holton,  Barbara  and  Frank  had 
not  come  from  the  stable,  chattering  about  Queen 
Bess. 


266 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Joe  Lorey,  mad  with  wrath,  his  heart  filled  with 
the  lust  of  killing  for  revenge,  infuriated  to  the 
point  where  he  felt  need  of  neither  food  nor  sleep, 
yet  made  less  rapid  time  down  the  rough  mountain 
paths  than  had  the  girl.  Love-lent  wings  are 
swifter  than  an  impulse  born  of  hatred  and  re- 
sentment can  be.  She  had  flown  upon  such  wings 
to  save  the  man  who  filled  her  innocent  thoughts 
with  longing;  Joe  had  gone  clumsily,  despite  his 
cunning  as  a  mountaineer,  for  leaden,  murderous 
thoughts  had  weighed  him  down,  hampering  the 
quickness  of  his  wit,  delaying  his  fleet  feet,  con- 
fusing the  alertness  of  his  watchfulness  for  faint- 
limned  trails,  loose  areas  perilous  of  slides  upon 
steep  slopes.  Indeed,  though  hate  had  driven  him, 
Joe  Lorey  never  in  his  life  had  made  so  very  slow 
a  journey  to  the  bluegrass  as  that  which  he  had 
started  on  from  his  wrecked  still,  with  hatred  of 
Frank  Layson,  who  he  thought  had  viciously  be- 
trayed him,  blazing  in  his  heart. 

Hours  after  the  light-footed  girl,   spurred  by 

267 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


her  fear  for  one  whom  she  but  dimly  guessed  that 
she  had  learned  to  love,  had  arrived  at  the  blue- 
grass  mansion  and  been  welcomed  by  the  owner  of 
Queen  Bess,  the  mountaineer  reached  the  confines 
of  the  splendid  farm,  and  lurked  there,  waiting  for 
night-fall  to  make  his  entrance  into  the  house 
grounds  safe. 

The  rough  youth's  mental  state  was  pitiable. 
Tragedy  had  pursued  him,  almost  from  his  life's 
beginning,  he  reflected,  as  he  furtively  awaited  op- 
portunity for  the  revenge  which  he  had  planned. 
The  fierce  feud  of  the  mountains  had  robbed  him 
of  his  parents,  and,  with  them,  of  the  best  years 
of  his  youth;  the  rough  life  of  the  mountains  had 
robbed  his  strong  young  manhood  of  those  oppor- 
tunities which,  he  dimly  realized,  might  have  made 
him  different  and  better;  when  love  for  sweet 
Madge  Brierly  had  come  to  him,  Fate  had  brought 
up  from  the  bluegrass  the  young  stranger,  who, 
with  his  superior  learning,  polished  manner  and 
smooth  speech,  had  found  the  conquest  of  the  girl 
(Joe  bitterly  reflected)  all  too  easy;  and  finally 
had  come  the  crowning,  black  disaster — the  be- 
trayal of  his  still  to  the  agents  of  the  government, 
its  destruction  and  his  transformation  from  a  free 
man  of  the  mountains  into  a  furtive  outlaw. 

He  could  not  see  that  life  held  anything  but 
gloom  for  him — black,  impenetrable,  ever  thicken- 
ing. He  had  but  one  thing  left  to  live  for — a  re- 


268 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


venge  as  dark  as  were  the  wrongs  which  he  had 
suffered. 

He  knew  that  government  agents  have  shrewd 
wits,  keen  eyes,  strong  arms,  and  never  let  a  moon- 
shiner escape  if,  through  any  strategy,  they  may 
bring  about  his  capture;  he  knew  that  since  the 
discovery  and  destruction  of  his  still  he  was  a 
marked  man;  so  it  was  nearing  dusk  when,  after 
intensely  cautious  and  immensely  skilful  manceuver- 
ing  against  discovery,  he  actually  entered  the  Layson 
grounds. 

The  long,  exciting  afternoon,  full  of  Queen 
Bess,  a  certain  sense  of  triumph  over  Barbara  Hoi- 
ton,  the  extent  of  which  she  could  not  guess,  count- 
less thrills  of  gratitude  and  exultation  born  of  the 
kindness  and  consideration  shown  her  by  Miss  Al- 
athea  and  the  Colonel,  had  sped  away  before  Madge 
realized  that  it  had  been  half-spent.  Now,  though, 
the  deepening  twilight  warned  her  of  the  flight  of 
time  and  told  her  that  she  must,  perforce,  perform 
the  task  for  which  she  had  descended  from  the 
mountains. 

All  the  others  except  Frank  had  drifted  toward 
the  house,  and  she  had  hung  behind  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  getting  private  speech  with  him, 
when  she  had  the  day's  first  opportunity. 

"Mr.  Frank,"  said  she,  "afore  we  go  into  th' 
house  I  got  a  word  to  say  to  you  as  I  don't  want 
nobody  but  you  to  hear." 

A  quick  glance  at  her  face  showed  him  that  what 

269 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


she  had  to  say  was,  really,  of  great  importance, 
for  her  lovely  mouth  was  serious,  her  deep  eyes 
were  full  of  worry,  her  smooth  brow  was  nearer  to 
real  frowning  than  he  had  ever  seen  it. 

"Why,  Madge,  what  is  the  matter?" 

She  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  turning  her  sweet 
face  up  to  him  with  a  revelation  of  solicitude  which, 
had  she  known  how  plain  it  was,  she  would  have 
hidden  at  all  hazard.  "It  may  mean  life  or  death 
to  you,"  she  told  him  solemnly. 

"Life  or  death  to  me,  little  girl?  What  are  you 
talking  of?"  said  he,  almost  incredulous. 

"Joe  Lorey's  still  were  raided  by  the  revenuers 
after  you  come  down!" 

"It  can't  be  possible!" 

"It  is.  It  lies  in  ruins  and  in  ashes  an'  he  is 
hidin'  out  among  th'  mountings,  somewhars,  in 
danger,  ev'ry  minute,  of  arrest  an',  then,  of — 
prison.  'Twas  all  he  had  in  th'  wide  world." 

"Poor  fellow!  I  am  sorry,"  said  Layson,  with 
quick  sympathy.  "I'll  see  what  can  be  done.  And 
you  say  he's  hiding  out  up  in  the  mountains  ?" 

She  hesitated.  "I  said  so,  but  I  reckon  it  ain't 
true,  exactly.  It  was  that  that  made  me  hurry 
down  to  speak  to  you.  Some  say  as  how  he  has 
come  down  into  th'  bluegrass  to  find  th'  man  as 
gin  th'  word.  It  is  a  crime  as  never  is  forgiven  in 
th'  mountings." 

As  she  spoke,  unseen,  behind  them,  a  dark, 
slouching,  furtive  figure  slipped  across  an  open 

270 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


space  and  took  a  crouching  stand  behind  a  tree  near 
by.  Had  they  listened  without  speech  they  might 
have  heard  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  very  man  of 
whom  they  spoke,  might  have  heard  the  sharp  click 
of  the  lock  of  his  long  rifle  as  he  brought  its  ham- 
mer to  full  cock.  Had  they  turned  about  they 
might  have  seen  the  blue  glint  of  the  day's  last  light 
upon  that  rifle's  barrel,  which  was  levelled  straight 
at  Layson's  heart.  But  they  saw  none  of  these 
things  nor  heard  a  sound. 

"Who  does  he  think  betrayed  him?"  Layson 
asked,  with  deep  interest,  but  no  trace  of  guilty 
knowledge,  thrilling  in  his  voice. 

Madge  hesitated.  Then  she  blurted  out  the 
truth.  "Who?"  she  repeated,  "Why — why  you! 
You— YOU!" 

The  rifle  barrel  steadied  to  its  mark,  the  finger 
curled  to  press  upon  the  trigger. 

"Why,  Madge,"  said  Layson,  earnestly,  "I  didn't 
even  know  he  had  a  still !  I  swear  it !" 

There  was  an  honest  ring  in  the  youth's  voice 
which  could  not  be  mistaken. 

"I  knowed  it  warn't  your  doin',"  the  girl  said 
with  a  great  sigh  of  relief. 

And  as  she  spoke  the  rifle  barrel  slowly  fell. 

"I  knowed  it  warn't  your  doin',  but  Joe'll  never 
believe  it.  Night  an'  day  you'll  have  to  be  close 
on  your  guard.  There's  no  tellin'  what  minute 
your  life  may  be  in  danger." 

"I  don't  believe  it  of  Joe  Lorey,"  Layson  an- 

271 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


swered  earnestly.  "We  fought,  and  he  fought 
fair." 

After  they  had  gone,  Joe  crept  out  from  his  hid- 
ing place  among  the  shrubbery  and  looked  after 
them  with  puzzled,  pain-filled  eyes,  like  a  great  ani- 
mal's. 

"If  they'd  only  knowed  that  I  war  standin'  in 
th'  shadder  there!"  he  mused.  "If  he  hadn't  spoke 
them  words  I'd  pulled  th'  trigger,  but  he  spoke  up 
like  as  ef  't  war  true  an'  I  jest  couldn't  do  it." 

A  cautious  footstep  on  the  close-knit  sward, 
which  would  have  been  inaudible  to  any  ear  less 
keen  than  his,  attracted  his  attention,  suddenly,  and 
he  slipped  back  to  his  leafy  hiding-place.  Peering 
from  the  covert  he  saw  Holton  coming.  The  man 
was  furtive,  apprehensive  in  his  every  movement, 
suspicion  breeding.  When  Joe  stepped  out  from 
his  thicket  boldly,  to  confront  him,  the  ex-slave- 
dealer  fell  back,  frightened. 

"Hello,  sir,"  was  Joe's  laconic  greeting. 

"Joe  Lorey!"  exclaimed  Holton. 

"That's  me,"  Joe  boldly  granted.  He  peered 
at  him  so  closely  that  Holton  shrank  away  from 
him,  involuntarily.  "And  you — why  you're  the 
man  as  gin  th'  word  that  Frank  Layson  had  warned 
th'  revenooers  of  my  still." 

"I  told  ye  for  yer  good,"  said  Holton,  clearly 
recognizing  that  his  position  was  unfortunate. 
"An'  recollect  you  promised  not  to  tell  anyone  my 
name." 

272 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Joe  nodded  gravely.  "While  I  believe  ye  told 
th'  truth  I'll  keep  my  word,"  he  answered.  "But 
I  wants  to  tell  you  that  I  heered  Frank  Layson 
deny  it,  hyar,  to-night,  an'  it  sounded  like  he  war 
speakin'  th'  plain  truth.  See  hyar,  sir,  you  nearly 
egged  me  on  to  doin'  murder."  He  reached  for- 
ward and  seized  Holton  by  the  shoulder  roughly, 
with  a  grasp  so  powerful  that  the  old  man,  though 
he  was  of  sturdy  frame  and  mighty  muscle,  knew 
that  he  was  helpless  in  the  grip.  "Now  look  me 
in  th'  face.  Tell  me  as  you  vally  your  own  life — 
war  it  truth  or  lies,  you  told  me?" 

"It  war  th'  truth,"  said  Holton,  doggedly;  "th' 
truth  an'  nothin'  else." 

Joe  shook  his  head  incredulously.  "I'd  like  bet- 
ter proof  nor  your  word,  stranger,  for,  some  way, 
your  voice  it  don't  ring  true,  nor  yer  eye  look  hon- 
est." 

"I'll  gin  ye  th'  proof,"  said  Holton  desperately. 
"Ye  know  that  I  war  never  near  yer  still.  Layson 
told  me  it  war  in  th'  wall  of  a  ravine — Hangin' 
Rock  Ravine — an'  a  big  oak  stood  in  front  of  it 
an'  hid  the  mouth  o'  th'  cave.  Thar,  do  ye  be- 
lieve me,  now?" 

Joe  nodded,  slowly,  thoughtfully.  "No  man  as 
lived  up  in  th'  mountings  would  have  told  ye."  He 
considered  ponderously  for  a  moment.  "Yes,  I 
reckon  that  I'll  have  to  take  yer  word.  T  was  him 
as  done  it." 

"Of  course  it  war,"  said  Holton,  and  then,  per- 

273 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


haps,  a  bit  too  eagerly:  "an'  you'll  make  him  pay 
for  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Joe,  "but  I've  another  score  to  set- 
tle, first,  another  man  to  find — Lem  Lindsay." 

Holton  was  plainly  startled,  although  Joe  could 
not  guess  just  why  he  should  be.  "Lem  Lindsay !" 
he  exclaimed. 

"Yes ;  the  man  as  murdered  my  father.  I've  had 
word  of  him,  at  last.  I've  heard  as  how  he  war 
seen,  years  ago,  in  New  Orleans — he  war  a  nig- 
ger-trader, then — an'  that  he's  come  up  in  th'  blue- 
grass  country,  since,  like  enough  under  another 
name."  He  looked  at  Holton  eagerly.  "I  say, 
sir,  you  don't  know  a  man  like  that,  do  you?" 

Holton  spoke  a  little  hurriedly.  "No,  no;  there 
ain't  no  man  like  that  in  these  parts." 

"It  don't  make  no  differ  whar  he  bides,"  said 
Joe.  "Soon  or  late  our  paths'll  cross  an'  bring  us 
face  to  face.  When  he  struck  down  my  father  it 
war  sealed  and  signed  above  that  he  war  to  fall  by 
my  hand ;  an'  there's  a  f eelin'  in  my  heart  that  that 
hour  air  drawin'  nigh."  He  nodded  and  then 
turned  away.  "Good-night,  stranger." 

Holton  was  thoroughly  alarmed.  Many  things 
distressed  him.  He  could  plainly  see  that  his 
daughter's  love-affair  with  Layson  had  gone 
wrong,  he  realized  that  there  was  little  chance  that 
he  could  buy  Madge  Brierly's  coal  lands  at  any- 
thing but  a  fair  value,  and  now — to  fall  by  his 
hand! 

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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"I'll  make  that  false,"  he  muttered.  "Why,  I've 
got  to  do  it!" 

He  moved  away  among  the  trees,  but  stopped  in 
frequent  thought  as  he  progressed. 

"They'll  lay  the  crime  on  Lorey,"  he  reflected, 
after  he  had  laid  his  plan.  "They'll  hunt  him  down 
and  lynch  him  and  I  shall  be  safe.  Layson'H  be 
ruined,  he'll  have  to  sell  Woodlawn,  and  my  gal'll 
be  th'  missus  there,  in  spite  of  him.  I've  got  to  do 
it." 

Like  a  shadow  of  the  night  he  hurried  through 
the  grounds  until  he  reached  the  stable  where  Queen 
Bess  was  thought  to  be  secure. 

"Every  window  barred,  every  door  is  sealed  but 
this!"  he  cunningly  reflected  as  he  paused  at  the 
front  entrance. 

With  frantic  haste,  lest  he  should  be  discovered 
at  the  work,  he  piled  brush  from  a  near  refuse  pile 
against  the  door  and  stuffed  wisps  of  grass  and  hay 
into  the  bottom  of  the  heap.  Into  this  tinder  pile 
he  thrust  a  lighted  match  and  disappeared,  just  as 
Madge  came  to  the  bench  where  she  had  paused 
when  she  first  came  to  Woodlawn,  early  in  the 
afternoon. 

It  was  plain  enough,  from  her  dejected  looks  and 
listless  attitude,  that  the  dance*  had  given  her  no 
pleasure,  but,  on  the  contrary,  had  filled  her  with 
distress. 

"I  couldn't  stand  it  thar,  no  longer,"  she  was 
thinking,  bitterly.  "I  war  jest  a  curiosity,  like  a 

275 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


wild  woman.  Miss  Barbarous  poked  fun  at  me 
till  I  war  plumb  afraid  I'd  fly  at  her  like  a  wild- 
cat, so  I  jest  slipped  away.  Oh,  I  see,  now,  as  I 
never  seed  afore,  the  differ  that  there  is  'twixt  Mr. 
Frank  an'  me!  An'  I  know,  now,  what  't  is  air 
ailin'  me.  I  loves  him.  Oh,  I  loves  him  better  nor 
my  life!  But  it  can't  never  be."  She  dropped  her 
head  into  her  hands  and  sobbed.  "Good-bye,  good, 
kind,  Mr.  Frank,  good-bye!"  She  stretched  her 
arms  out  toward  the  mansion  she  had  lately  left, 
where  lights  were  twinkling  gaily,  whence  sounds 
of  music  now  came  faintly  to  her  ears.  "You'll 
soon  forget  the  little  mounting  girl.  You'll  never 
know  she  loved  you.  I'm  goin'  back — back  to  the 
old  mountings." 

As  she  rose  an  ominous  crackling  caught  her  ear 
anl  held  her  at  attention,  then,  in  a  horrid  flash,  the 
fire  blazed  out  among  the  hay  and  brush  which  Hoi- 
ton  had  piled  up  against  the  stable  door. 

"Oh,  oh!"  she  cried.  "Th'  stable  is  burnin'! 
Fire!  Fire!  Fire!  Neb,  are  you  in  there?  Don't 
you  hear  me,  Neb?  Th'  stable  air  on  fire!" 

Neb's  voice  came  from  the  dim  interior,  muffled 
and  skeptical.  "What  dat?"  he  said.  "Don't  want 
no  foolishness  'round  heah.  I's  ahmed." 

"It's  me,  Neb,  me,"  she  cried.  "Th'  stable  's 
burnin',  Neb!" 

"Gorramighty !"  she  heard  Neb  exclaim,  now 
in  a  voice  expressive  of  great  fright.  "Dat's  so, 
dat's  so!  Quick,  honey,  open  up  de  doah!" 

276 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Madge  was  working  at  the  biggest  log  which 
Holton  had  thrust  against  the  door  to  feed  the 
blaze.  The  flames  and  smoke  surged  'round  her  as 
she  struggled  with  the  unwieldy  thing,  her  hands 
grasped,  more  than  once,  live  coals,  without  mak- 
ing her  release  her  hold.  Once  or  twice  the  burst- 
ing flames,  swung  hither  and  swung  yon  by  the 
light,  vagrant  breezes  of  the  night  and  the  drafts 
born  of  the  fire,  itself,  flared  straight  toward  her 
face,  and,  to  save  her  hair,  which,  once  igniting, 
would,  she  knew,  make  further  work  impossible, 
she  had  to  draw  back  for  a  second;  but  each  time, 
as  she  saw  another  chance,  she  sprang  again  to  the 
desperate  task.  At  last,  after  a  dozen  efforts,  she 
had  thrust  the  blazing  log  so  far  from  the  already 
burning  door  that  Neb  could  push  it  open.  He 
stumbled  out,  his  old  hands  held  before  him,  grop- 
ingly, half -suffocated. 

"Neb,  you  ain't  hurt,"  said  she. 

"You  go  ring  dat  bell,"  said  he,  pointing  to  a 
standard  bearing  at  its  top  an  ornamental  iron 
crotch  in  which  a  big  plantation  bell  was  swung. 
"Soon's  I  get  my  bref  from  all  dat  smoke  I'll  go 
back  an'  git  Queen  Bess." 

The  girl  sprang  to  the  rope  and  soon  the  bell 
was  ringing  out  a  wild  alarm. 

"Hurry,  Neb!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  hurry!  Th' 
fire's  a-gainin',  ev'ry  second!  Hurry!" 

Neb  dashed  back  into  the  stable  upon  trembling 
limbs,  while,  without  a  pause,  the  girl  kept  up  the 

277 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


clangor  of  alarm.  Her  eyes  were  ever  on  the 
door  through  which  the  faithful  black  had  disap- 
peared, watching  anxiously  to  see  him  come  out 
with  the  mare. 

But  second  after  second — seconds  which  seemed 
to  her  like  hours — went  by  and  he  did  not  appear 
again.  Her  heart  began  to  beat  with  frantic  fears 
that  Neb,  himself,  as  well  as  the  superb  animal 
which  she  had  already  learned  to  love,  had  fallen 
victim  to  the  fire,  when,  at  last,  he  stumbled  from 
the  door. 

'Tain't  no  use,"  he  said,  as  he  weakly  stag- 
gered up  to  her.  "It  kain't  be  done.  Queen  Bess 
am  crazy  wid  de  flan.  She  jes'  won't  come  out !  I 
cain't  git  huh  to  come  out."  He  sobbed.  "An* 
she  am  all  dat  Marse  Frank  hab  on  earth !"  Beside 
himself  he  ran  off  toward  the  house,  shouting  for 
his  master  wildly. 

"All  he  has  on  earth!"  the  girl  exclaimed,  the 
bell-rope  falling  from  relaxing  hands.  An  instant 
she  stood  there  in  thought,  horrified  at  the  idea  of 
the  catastrophe  which  threatened  Layson.  Then: 
"I'll  save  her!  She  will  follow  me!" 

Without  a  second's  hesitation,  with  no  thought 
for  her  own  safety,  she  drew  her  skirts  about  her 
tightly,  wrapped  her  shawl  around  her  head  to  save 
her  hair  and  dashed  through  the  growing  flames 
about  the  stable-door,  into  the  inferno  which  now 
raged  within  the  structure,  just  as  Neb,  running 
with  a  lurching  step,  but  with  a  speed  remarkable 

278 


"BACK!  BACK!  I'M  A-COMIN'  WITH  QUKN  BBSS!" 


Page  279. 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


in  one  so  old  and  stiffened  by  rheumatic  pains, 
dashed  back  to  the  scene  of  the  disaster,  in  advance 
of  Frank,  the  Colonel,  Holton,  Miss  Alathea  and 
the  other  inmates  of  the  house,  guests,  servants,  all. 

Without  a  word,  as  he  approached,  Frank  pulled 
off  his  coat,  evidently  preparing  for  a  desperate 
dash  through  the  now  roaring  flames  to  rescue  his 
beloved  mare.  Then,  bracing  himself  for  a  great 
spring  through  the  lurid  barrier,  he  cried,  "I'll  save 
her!"  and  would  have  leaped  into  the  flaming 
entrance  if  Neb  had  not  caught  his  arm  with  des- 
perate grip. 

"No,  honey,"  the  old  negro  cried,  "yof  shan't 
go  in!" 

The  Colonel  joined  the  negro  in  restraining  the 
half-crazed  owner  of  Queen  Bess.  "It's  no  use, 
Frank,"  said  he.  "We'll  not  let  you  go  in." 

They  dragged  the  struggling  youth  back  from 
the  fire  just  as,  to  their  amazement,  an  exultant 
voice  rang  from  the  inside  of  the  burning  building. 
"Back !  Back !"  it  cried.  "I'm  a-comin'  with  Queen 
Bess!" 

An  instant  later  Madge  sprang  out  through  the 
flames,  followed  by  the  mare,  about  whose  head  the 
mountain  girl  had  wrapped  her  shawl. 

"Come,  girl !  Come,  girl !"  said  Madge,  alert  of 
eye,  cool-witted,  soothing. 

As  docilely  as  she  had  followed  her  that  after- 
noon, the  mare  stepped  through  the  blazing  door 
and  out  into  the  stable-yard. 

279 


CHAPTER  XV 

Lexington  was  in  a  wild  state  of  excitement  on 
the  morning  of  the  year's  great  race,  the  Ashland 
Oaks.  In  a  private  parlor  of  the  Phoenix  Hotel 
the  two  men  who  were,  perhaps,  most  deeply  inter- 
ested of  all  in  it,  were  weary  of  their  speculations 
after  they  had  gone,  for  the  thousandth  time,  over 
every  detail  of  possible  prophecy  and  speculation. 
The  Colonel  sat  beside  a  table  upon  which  stood  a 
"long"  glass  from  which  protruded,  and  in  which 
nestled  fragrant  mint-leaves.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
glass  there  lingered,  yet,  the  good  third  of  a  julep. 

"There's  one  capital  thing  about  a  mint-julep," 
he  said  comfortably,  and  smacked  appreciative  lips. 
"One  always  suggests  another."  He  drained  his 
glass  and  rose.  At  the  other  side  of  the  room  was 
the  bell-button.  His  finger  was  extended  and  about 
to  touch  it  when  he  stopped  to  think.  "No !  Great 
heavens!"  said  he.  "That  makes  my  third,  already, 
and  I'm  as  dry  as  the  desert  of  Sahara."  He  sat 
down  again,  an  air  of  martyrdom  upon  his  face. 
"Ah,  well,  Miss  'Lethe's  worth  it.  I  say,  Frank, 
anything  new  in  the  extra?" 

280 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


The  youthful  owner  of  Queen  Bess,  to  whom  it 
seemed  as  if  almost  life  itself  were  staked  on  the 
result  of  the  coming  contest  at  the  track,  lowered, 
with  a  nervous  hand,  for  an  instant  only,  the  news- 
paper he  had  been  poring  over. 

"Only  this,"  he  said,  and  slowly  read :  "  'Queen 
Bess  is  still  the  favorite  for  the  Ashland  Oaks.  The 
report  that  she  was  injured  in  the  fire  by  which 
her  stable  was  burned,  proves  to  be  a  canard.  Her 
owner  declares  her  to  be  unhurt  and  in  fine  condi- 
tion.' " 

The  Colonel  nodded  his  approval.  "That's  what 
I've  telegraphed  the  Dyer  brothers.  I'm  sure  they 
won't  refuse  to  take  her  when  they  know  the  facts 
in  the  case.  It  was  a  close  shave,  though.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  that  little  thoroughbred  from  the 
mountains " 

"When  she  rushed  into  the  flames,  last  night, 
wasn't  she  magnificent!"  said  Frank,  flushing  with 
enthusiasm.  "And  when  she  came  out,  leading 
Queen  Bess  to  safety,  she  looked  like  an  angel!" 

The  Colonel  coughed  in  deprecation.  "The 
simile's  off,  a  little  bit,  ain't  it?  Angels  are  not 
supposed  to  come  out  of  the  flames." 

"At  least,  Colonel,  you'll  admit  that  she's  the 
best  and  bravest  little  girl  you  ever  knew." 

The  Colonel  smiled.  "Yes;  but,  my  boy,  this 
enthusiasm  is  alarming."  He  laughed  outright. 
"It  seems  to  indicate  another  conflagration,  with 
Cupid  as  the  incendiary." 

281 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


The  youth  colored.     "Oh,  nonsense!" 

"Be  more  careful,  Frank,"  his  friend  urged,  be- 
coming serious.  "She's  a  dear,  simple  little  thing, 
not  used  to  the  ways  of  the  world.  Don't  let  her 
get  too  fond  of  you." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"See  here,  my  boy.  I  know  you  young  fellows 
don't  want  an  old  fool,  like  me,  interfering  with 
your  affairs,  but  I've  taken  that  little  girl  right  to 
my  heart.  I  tell  you,  Frank,  she's  too  brave  and 
true  to  be  trifled  with.  She's  not  that  kind." 

Layson  flushed  hotly.  The  intimation,  even  from 
the  Colonel,  was  more  than  he  could  bear  with  pa- 
tience. "Stop!"  he  cried.  "You've  said  enough. 
What  you  mean  to  insinuate  is  false !" 

The  Colonel  rose,  embarrassed.  The  youth's  ear- 
nestness astonished  him.  Could  it  be  possible  that 
this  scion  of  an  ancient  bluegrass  family,  this  leader 
of  the  younger  set  in  one  of  the  most  exclusive 
circles  in  Kentucky,  could  really  be  thinking  seri- 
ously of  that  untutored  mountain-girl?  "My  boy, 
forgive  me!"  he  exclaimed.  "I — I  didn't  under- 
stand. I  never  dreamed  there  could  be  anything — 
er — serious.  I  thought,  of  course " 

Frank  paced  the  floor  with  nervous  tread.  Other 
things  than  the  impending  contest  for  the  Ash- 
land Oaks  had  been  worrying  him  of  late.  Since  he 
had  left  the  mountains  there  had  scarcely  been  a 
moment,  waking  or  sleeping,  when  the  face  of  the 
sweet  mountain  girl  who  had  fascinated  him  among 

282 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


her  rocks  and  forests,  and  had  come  down  to  the 
bluegrass  to  save  not  only  his  life  but  the  life  of 
his  beloved  mare,  had  not  been  vividly  before  him. 
Untutored  she  might  be,  uncouth  of  speech,  un- 
learned in  all  those  things,  in  fact,  which  the 
women  he  had  known  had  ever  held  most  valuable, 
but  her  compensating  virtues  had  begun  to  take 
upon  themselves  their  actual  values — values  so 
overwhelming  in  their  magnitude  that  her  few  lack- 
ings  grew  to  seem  continually  less  important  in  his 
mind. 

"Never  mind,  Colonel,"  he  said  slowly,  "you 
can't  say  anything  to  me  but  what  I've  said,  over 
and  over  again,  to  myself.  I  know  she's  ignorant 
and  uncultured.  I  know  what  it  would  mean  if  I 
should  marry  her.  If  I  were  to  choose  for  a  wife 
a  fashionable  girl,  whose  life  is  centered  in  the 
luxury  which  surrounds  her,  the  world  would  smile 
approval ;  but  for  Madge,  with  her  true,  brave  heart 
and  noble  thoughts,  there  would  be  only  sneers  and 
insults  because  she  happened  to  be  born  up  there 
in  the  mountains.  That  is  the  kind  of  people  we 
are  down  here  in  the  bluegrass."  He  smiled,  some- 
what bitterly.  "And  I — well,  I'm  too  much  like  the 
rest  to  need  any  warning — too  much  of  a  coward 
to  think  of  making  her  my  wife." 

He  sat,  dejectedly,  in  a  chair  by  the  long  table, 
and,  with  face  held  between  his  hands  and  elbows 
planted  on  the  board,  looked  across  it,  through  the 
open  window,  out  into  the  thronging  street  with 

283 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


gloomy  eyes.  For  days  he  had  been  fighting  battle 
after  battle  with  himself.  He  could  not  make  his 
mind  up  as  to  what  he  ought  to  do.  He  knew  he 
loved  the  mountain-girl,  but — but 

"There,  there,  my  boy,  I'm  sorry,"  said  the  Colo- 
nel, sympathetically,  apologetically.  "Let's  drop 
the  subject.  The  ladies  will  be  here,  soon.  Before 
they  come  I'll  step  over  to  the  office  and  get  the 
answer  from  the  Dyer  Brothers."  He  rose,  look- 
ing at  his  watch.  "It's  nearly  time  it  was  here. 
They  were  to  wire  promptly.  I'll  bring  it  to  you 
as  soon  as  it  comes."  He  went  to  Frank  and  put 
his  hand  upon  his  shoulder  comfortingly.  "Don't 
worry,  my  boy.  It  will  all  come  out,  all  right. 
Ahem !  I  mean  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  the 
mare  and  the  sale  will  go  through." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Frank,  rising  without  much 
show  of  energy.  He  was  clearly  on  the  edge  of 
real  discouragement.  "If  it  doesn't — and  that  as- 
sessment to  be  met — ah,  well!  What's  the  use  of 
worrying?  It  doesn't  help  the  matter  any."  He 
walked  slowly  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 
"Here  come  Madge  and  Aunt  'Lethe,"  he  an- 
nounced, "through  with  their  shopping  at  last. 
How  different  Madge  looks  from  the  little  moun- 
tain-girl I  first  knew!"  He  turned  and  faced  the 
Colonel.  "Ah,  if  the  world  knew  her  as  I  do 

The  Colonel  left  the  room,  bound  for  the  tele- 
graph-office, just  before  a  shrill  scream  came  from 
the  corridor,  without,  startling  Layson  greatly. 

284 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Oh,  dellaw!"  the  frightened  voice  said.  "Le' 
me  out !  Le'  me  out !" 

He  recognized  the  voice,  at  once,  as  belonging 
to  the  girl  whom  he  had  been  discussing  with  the 
Colonel,  and  it  was  so  full  of  terror  that  he  rushed 
quickly  to  the  door,  prepared  to  rescue  her  from 
some  dire  peril. 

"What  can  be  the  matter?"  he  thought,  frigh- 
tened. 

At  the  door  he  met  Madge,  white  of  face  and 
startled,  coming  in. 

"Why,  Madge!    What  is  it?" 

She  leaned  against  the  writing-table,  gasping. 
It  was  plain  enough  that  she  had  been  greatly 
frightened. 

"Wait  till  I  git  my  breath,"  she  said;  and  then: 
"They  got  us  into  a  little  room,  and,  all  of  a  sud- 
den, we  started  skallyhootin'  fer  th'  roof — room  an' 
all!" 

Frank  fell  back,  relieved,  and  trying  not  to  show 
amusement. 

"That  was  the  elevator,"  he  explained.  "A  ma- 
chine to  carry  you  upstairs  and  save  you  the  work 
of  climbing." 

"Dellaw!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  not  yet  entirely 
calm.  "As  if  I  couldn't  walk!  Thought  we  was 
blowed  up  by  another  dynamighty  bomb!" 

Miss  Alathea  entered  hurriedly,  looking  about 
the  room,  in  evident  distress.  At  sight  of  Madge 


285 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


she  gave  a  great  sigh  of  relief.  "My  dear,  I'm  so 
sorry  you  were  frightened !" 

The  girl  laughed  nervously,  pulling  herself  to- 
gether. "I  understand,  now,  Miss  'Lethe,  and  I'm 
as  cool  as  a  cucumber." 

There  was  a  group  of  darkies  at  the  door,  and, 
suddenly,  they  all  began  to  grin.  Miss  'Lethe  knew 
the  sign. 

"The  Colonel's  coming,"  she  said  positively. 
"Their  faces  show  it.  Look  at  them?" 

Her  guess  proved  a  true  prophecy.  The  Colonel, 
plainly  busy  with  absorbing  thoughts,  was  strid- 
ing along  the  uneven  old  brick  sidewalk,  seeing 
nothing,  hearing  nothing,  when  the  crowd  of 
darkies,  sure  of  his  good-nature,  beneficiaries  from 
past  favors,  many  times,  surrounded  him,  beseech- 
ing him  for  tips  upon  the  coming  races.  Very  dif- 
ferent were  these  city  darkies  from  the  respectful 
negroes  of  the  Kentucky  plantations  of  the  time. 
They  swarmed  about  him  in  an  insistent  horde. 

"Who  gwine  win  dat  race,  Marse  Cunnel  ?  Who 
gwine  win  dat  race?"  they  chorussed. 

He  stopped  and  beamed  at  them  good-naturedly. 

"Who's  going  to  win?"  said  he.  "Queen  Bess, 
of  course." 

He  joined  the  group,  inside,  with  a  bundle  in  one 
hand  and  an  open  telegram  in  the  other.  "Good 
morning,  ladies.  Miss  'Lethe,  you're  looking  fresh 
and  blooming  as  you  used  to  twenty  years  ago." 
He  tried  to  catch  himself,  but  failed.  "As  fresh 

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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


and  blooming,"  he  corrected,  "as  usual,  Miss 
'Lethe."  His  bow  was  very  courtly  and  her  own 
no  less  so. 

"Frank,  my  boy,"  said  he,  turning  to  the  youth- 
ful owner  of  Queen  Bess,  "I've  got  their  answer, 
and  it's  all  right." 

Frank  had  been  acutely  worried.  There  had 
been  some  question  of  the  sale  of  the  mare  to  the 
Dyer  Brothers  before  the  fire ;  now  that  this  disaster 
had  occurred  and  stories  had  been  started,  as,  of 
course,  he  knew  they  must  have  been,  about  injuries 
to  her,  there  might  be,  he  had  feared,  good  reason 
to  expect  the  celebrated  horsemen  to  withdraw  their 
proposition.  The  Colonel's  news,  therefore,  was 
very  welcome. 

"They  take  the  mare?"  he  asked,  all  eagerness." 

"N-o,"  began  the  Colonel,  "but " 

Frank's  face  fell,  instantly,  and  his  shoulders 
drooped  despairingly.  "Then  it's  all  wrong." 

"Not  yet,"  said  the  Colonel,  "score  again."  He 
raised  the  telegram  and  read  from  it:  '  'Can't  take 
mare  without  positive  proof  that  she's  all  right. 
Let  her  run  in  the  Ashland  Oaks,  to-day.  If  she 
wins,  we  take  her.' '  The  Colonel  looked  up  beam- 
ingly. "Do  you  hear?  They  take  her!" 

The  condition  which,  now,  the  Dyer  brothers 
made,  when,  before  this,  they  had  made  none, 
bothered  Frank.  The  telegram  did  not  elate  him 
quite  as  much  as  the  old  horseman  had  supposed  it 
would.  "Ah,  if  she  wins!"  said  he. 

287 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Miss  Alathea  spoke  up,  eagerly.  "Oh,  Frank, 
of  course  she'll  win." 

"She's  got  to  win!"  exclaimed  the  Colonel  with 
much  emphasis. 

Frank  was  in  a  pessimistic  mood.  "I'm  not  so 
sure,"  said  he,  a  little  gloomily.  The  strain  of 
the  past  days  had  been  a  hard  trial  for  the  youth. 
"If  that  imp  of  a  jockey,  Ike,  should  get  in  range 
of  a  whiskey  bottle — however,  he  has  promised  not 
to  leave  his  room." 

The  Colonel  laughed.  "Ike  leave  his  room?"  he 
said.  "You're  right — he  won't;  but  it  will  not  be 
his  promise  that  Mall  keep  him  from  it.  He  couldn't 
leave  it  if  he  would." 

"Why  not?"  inquired  Miss  'Lethe. 

"Because,"  the  Colonel  answered,  "I  have  got  his 
clothes !" 

"His  clothes!"  said  Frank,  astonished. 

"Yes — a  Napoleonic  device.  When  I  went  to 
see  him,  this  morning,  I  found  him  in  bed.  I  knew 
how  it  might  be  if  he  got  out,  so  I  saw  to  it  that 
his  meals  would  reach  him  promptly,  and  borrowed 
the  one  suit  of  clothes  he  brought  with  him,  under 
pretence  of  needing  them  to  help  me  order  a  new 
jockey-suit  for  him  to  wear  in  the  great  race.  I've 
been  fair  about  it,  too — I've  got  the  new  clothes 
for  him."  He  pointed  to  the  bundle  which  he  had 
just  brought  in.  "They're  in  there — and  they'll  not 
disgrace  Queen  Bess.  They're  the  best  I  could 
get." 

288 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Frank,  less  interested  in  the  clothes  than  in  the 
fact  that  the  jockey,  now,  was  quite  secure  against 
temptation,  sighed  with  satisfaction.  "Then  he's 
safe,"  said  he. 

The  Colonel  nodded,  notably  well  satisfied  with 
his  performance.  Miss  Alathea,  shocked,  as  she 
tried  to  be,  by  all  this  business,  adjunct  of  gambling, 
every  bit  of  it,  yet  smiled  admiringly  at  the  big 
horseman.  Only  Madge,  learned,  through  much 
experience  with  mountaineers,  whose  greatest  curse 
is  whisky,  in  the  ways  of  men  addicted  to  its  use, 
was  not  convinced  that  all  was  surely  well. 

"I'd  keep  a  watch  on  him,  just  the  same,"  she 
said.  Now  that  she  understood  the  vast  importance 
of  this  race  to  Layson  her  whole  heart  was  wrapped 
up  in  its  fortunes.  "When  a  man  wants  whisky 
he  gener'ly  finds  a  way  to  git  it." 

"You're  right,  Madge,"  Frank  agreed.  "I  think 
I'll  go  and  look  after  him,  now." 

He  started  toward  the  door  just  as  a  knock 
sounded  on  it.  When  he  opened  it  he  found  Horace 
Holton  standing  waiting  for  admittance.  The  man 
seemed  to  be  excited. 

"I  don't  want  to  intrude,  sar,"  said  the  ex-mer- 
chant in  slaves,  "but  I  come  to  tell  you  what  you'd 
orter  know.  Th'  news  of  th'  fire,  last  night,  hev 
set  ev'rybody  wild.  They're  lookin'  to  you,  sar,  to 
sw'ar  out  a  warrant  for  Joe  Lorey  an'  set  th'  sheriff 
on  his  track." 

Frank  came  back   into  the   room  with  the  old 

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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


man,  worried  by  the  news  which  he  had  brought. 
He  had  been  thinking  of  this  very  matter  and  he 
was  not  at  all  convinced  that  he  wished  to  swear  a 
warrant  out  for  Lorey.  Finally,  after  a  few  sec- 
onds of  silent  and  deep  thought,  he  shook  his  head. 
"I  want  more  proof,  first,"  he  declared. 

Holton  was  astonished  and  ill-pleased.  "What 
more  proof  d'  ye  want?"  he  asked.  "Ain't  it  as 
plain  as  day  that  he  come  down  irom  th'  mount- 
ings to  get  even  with  you  for  th'  raidin'  of  his  still? 
Who  else  would  'a'  done  it?" 

Madge  was  listening  with  flushed  face  and  frown- 
ing brow.  She  did  not,  for  a  second,  think  Joe 
Lorey  was  the  culprit.  Her  suspicions  had  not 
wholly  crystalized,  but  she  had  known  the  moun- 
tain-boy since  she  had  known  anyone,  and  she 
could  not  believe  that  he  would  fire  a  building  in 
which  was  confined  a  dumb  and  helpless  creature. 
She  knew  him  to  be  quite  as  fond  of  animals  as  she 
was.  She  believed  Holton,  also,  had  some  ulterior 
reason,  which  she  did  not  fathom,  then,  for  trying 
to  fasten  suspicion  on  the  lad.  In  her  earnestness, 
as  she  considered  these  things,  she  stepped  close 
to  the  old  man,  almost  truculently.  "That's  what 
I  mean  to  find  out,"  she  declared.  "Who  else  done 
it" 

Holton  was  angered  by  her  manner  and  her  op- 
position. He  had  not  expected  to  meet  any  diffi- 
culty in  the  execution  of  his  plan  to  throw  the 
blame  of  the  outrageous  crime  at  Woodlawn,  on 

290 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


the  shoulders  of  the  mountaineer.  "What  have  you 
got  to  do  with  it?"  he  angrily  demanded. 

She  was  not  impressed  by  his  quick  show  of 
temper.  "Reckon  I've  got  as  much  to  do  with  it 
as  you  hev,"  she  replied.  "Joe  Lorey  wouldn't 
never  plan  to  burn  a  helpless  dumb  critter.  He 
ain't  no  such  coward." 

"Who  else  had  a  call  to  do  it?"  said  the  old  man, 
placed,  unexpectedly,  on  the  defensive.  "Who  else 
war  an  enemy  of  Mr.  Layson's?" 

Madge  spoke  slowly.  She  was  not  sure,  at  all, 
whom  she  was  accusing;  her  suspicions  were  in- 
definite, obscure,  but  they  were  taking  form  within 
her  mind.  "Thar's  one  as  I  knows  on,"  she  slowly 
answered.  "It's  th'  one  as  told  Joe  Lorey  that  Mr. 
Frank  had  set  th'  revenuers  onto  him."  Her  con- 
viction strengthened  as  she  spoke,  and,  as  she  con- 
tinued, she  looked  Holton  firmly  in  the  eye  and 
spoke  with  emphasis.  "Show  me  th'  man  as  told 
that  lie,  an'  I'll  show  you  th'  scoundrel  as  tried  to 
burn  Queen  Bess!" 

Layson  liked  the  spirit  of  her  warm  defense  of 
her  old  friend,  .and,  himself,  knew  enough  about 
the  moonshiner  to  make  it  seem  quite  reasonable. 
He  knew  that  Joe  was  a  crude  creature,  but  be- 
lieved, and  had  good  reason  to  believe,  that  he  had 
his  code  of  honor  which  he  would  abide  by  at  all 
cost.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  feel  convinced 
that  this  would  have  permitted  him  to  set  fire  to 


291 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


the  stable.     "Madge,  I  believe  you're  right,"  said 
he. 

Holton  was  nonplussed.  Things  were  not  going 
as  he  had  expected  and  had  wished  them  to,  at  all. 
"Oh,  shore,  it  war  Joe  Lorey,"  he  protested.  "It 
couldn't  'a'  been  nobody  else.  I  warns  you,  here 
an'  now,  Layson,  that  ef  you  don't  set  th'  law  after 
him  he'll  be  lynched  before  to-morrer  night." 

Layson  was  a  little  angered  by  the  man's  per- 
sistence. "I'll  see  that  that  doesn't  happen,"  he  re- 
plied, "and  I'll  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  find  the 
scoundrel  who  really  did  the  deed,  and  have  him 
punished.  But  I'm  not  certain  that  the  man  will 
prove  to  be  Joe  Lorey." 

Holton,  angry,  baffled  and  astonished,  left  the 
room,  with  a  maddening  conviction  growing  in  his 
mind  that  things  were  going  wrong  and  would  con- 
tinue to  go  wrong.  He  almost  regretted,  now,  that 
he  had  yielded  to  the  impulse  to  set  fire  to  the  stable. 
If  Layson  would  not  let  him  throw  suspicion  where 
he  had  intended  it  should  fall,  then  one  part  of  his 
plan  would  have  failed  utterly :  he  would  not  have 
put  Joe  Lorey,  who,  at  liberty,  must  ever  be  a  peril 
to  him,  from  his  path;  and,  furthermore,  if  they 
kept  on  with  investigation,  in  the  end  they  might 
— they  might — but  he  would  not  let  himself  be- 
lieve that,  by  any  possibility,  the  real  truth  could 
come  out.  He  assured  himself  as  he  stepped  out 
into  the  crowded  street  that  he  was  safe,  whether 
or  not  the  crime  was  ever  fastened  on  Joe  Lorey. 

292 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Layson,  after  Holton  left,  looked  around  upon 
the  party  with  a  worried  eye.  "I  can't  take  this 
matter  up,  yet,"  he  declared.  "Until  the  race  is 
over  I  can  think  of  nothing  else.  Colonel,  I'll  look 
after  Ike,  and  then  we'll  be  off  to  the  track." 

"So  we  will,  my  boy,"  the  Colonel  answered,  "so 
we  will.  Ah,  what  a  race  it  will  be!"  As  Frank 
went  out,  the  horseman  rubbed  his  hands  with  keen 
anticipations  of  delight. 

"Oh,  Colonel,"  exclaimed  Madge,  brought  back 
by  this  turn  in  the  conversation  to  contemplation  of 
the  most  exciting  prospect  which  had  ever  been 
before  her,  "won't  we  have  fun?" 

"Won't  we?"  said  the  Colonel,  very  happily. 

But  then  Miss  Alathea  spoke.  She  had  listened 
to  all  the  talk  about  the  fire,  the  incendiary,  the  pur- 
suit, and  its  dreadful  possibilities  of  lynching,  with 
the  keenest  of  distress.  Now  the  Colonel's  calm 
declaration  that,  presently,  they  would  be  off  to  the 
race-track  which  he  had  sworn  forever  to  taboo, 
shifted  her  mind  suddenly  from  those  unpleasant 
topics. 

"Colonel!"  she  exclaimed,  in  pained  astonish- 
ment. "Do  you  forget  your  promise?" 

"Er — er "  the  old  horseman  began  and  be- 
came speechless. 

Madge  was  all  excitement.  "Mr.  Frank  has  told 
me  all  about  it,"  she  said  gaily.  "I  kin  see  it,  now 
— th'  grand-stand  filled  with  folks,  th'  jockeys  ridin' 
in  their  bright  colors,  th'  horses  a-champin'  an' 

293 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


a-pullin'  at  their  bits — an'  then — th'  start!"  The 
girl  had  dreamed  about  such  scenes  before  she  had 
so  much  as  guessed  that  she  might  ever  witness  one, 
and  now,  when  she  was  actually  about  to  go  out  to 
the  track,  herself,  and  with  her  own  eyes  gaze  upon 
the  greatest  race  which  old  Kentucky  had  known 
for  many  a  year,  it  seemed  too  good  to  be  true. 
Her  eyes  sparkled  as  she  spoke,  her  feet  danced  as 
if  they  might  be  in  the  stirrups,  her  hands  clutched 
on  imaginary  reins.  "All  off  together,  a-goin'  like 
th'  lightnin'!"  she  exclaimed.  "Queen  Bess  a-lyin' 
back  an'  lettin'  th'  others  do  th'  runnin',  Ike  never 
touchin'  her  with  whip  nor  spur  until  th'  last,  an' 
then  jest  lif tin'  her  in  as  if  she  had  wings !" 

"Stop!  Stop!"  cried  the  Colonel.  "Not  another 
word,  or  I'll  drop  dead  in  my  tracks !"  Then,  cau- 
tiously, to  Madge:  "I  say,  little  one,  couldn't  you 
let  me  have  a  word  alone  with  Miss  'Lethe  ?" 

The  girl  nodded  wisely.  "I  understand,"  said 
she ;  and  then,  with  a  quick  glance  at  Miss  Alathea, 
who  was  not  attending,  and  an  earnest  and  implor- 
ing look  at  the  poor  Colonel:  "Whatever  you  do 
don't  you  forget  that  we  are  goin'  to  th'  races!" 
She  left  the  room. 

Forget!  The  Colonel  was  not  likely  to  forget 
about  those  races !  He  was  in  deep  misery  of  mind. 
"Miss  'Lethe  ?"  he  said  timidly. 

"Yes,  Colonel,"  said  the  charming  lady,  turning 
toward  him. 


294 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Miss  'Lethe,  have  you  the  remotest  idea  of  the 
agony  I'm  suffering?" 

"Why,  Colonel,  what's  the  matter?  Aren't  you 
well?"  Miss  'Lethe's  keen  anxiety  was  instantane- 
ous. 

"Yes — yes — I'm  well — that  is,  I  am  now,  but  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  I'd  be  dead  before  night.  Miss 
'Lethe,  when  we  made  our  little  arrangement,  yes- 
terday, I  didn't  know  that  the  sale  of  the  mare, 
your  twenty-five  thousand  dollars,  the  assessment 
on  Frank's  stock,  everything  was  going  to  depend 
upon  this  race.  I  tell  you,  if  I  don't  see  it,  I'm 
liable  to  an  attack  of  heart-disease." 

"Ah,  Colonel,"  said  she,  sadly,  "I  see  where  your 
heart  really  is !" 

"With  you,  Miss  'Lethe,  always  with  you,"  he 
urgently  assured  her ;  but  there  was  pleading  in  his 
eyes  which  really  was  pitiful. 

"Remember  your  solemn  promise." 

"But  one  little  race,"  he  begged.  That  wouldn't 
count,  would  it?"  And  then  swear  off  forever." 

"No,  Colonel;  no,"  she  firmly  answered,  "for  if 
you  yield,  this  time,  I'll  know  that  in  the  race  for 
your  affections  the  horse  is  first,  the  woman  sec- 
ond." 

The  Colonel  sank  dejectedly  into  a  chair, 
can't  permit  you  to  think  that,"  said  he.     "I'll — 
keep  my  promise." 

She  went  to  him,  delighted.  "Ah,  I  was  sure 
you  would,"  said  she.  "Now  I  can  go  and  finish 

295 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


my  shopping  in  peace.  It's  all  for  your  good,  Colo- 
nel— for  your  good."  With  a  happy  smile  she  left 
him  there,  alone. 

"For  my  good !"  exclaimed  the  Colonel,  ruefully. 
"That's  what  the  teacher  used  to  say,  but  the  hick- 
ory smarted,  just  the  same.  Of  course  Miss  'Lethe 
is  first — but — but — the  horse  is  a  strong  second!" 

To  add  to  the  man's  agony,  Madge,  now,  re- 
turned, dressed  and  ready  for  the  most  exciting 
moments  of  her  life.  "I'm  all  ready,  Colonel,"  she 
said  eagerly.  "Think  we'll  have  good  seats?  I  do 
hope  I'll  be  whar  I  kin  see!" 

He  would  not,  yet,  disappoint  the  child ;  he  would 
not,  yet, — he  could  not — admit  that  he,  himself, 
was  to  meet  with  such  a  bitter  disappointment 
"You'll  see,  all  right,"  he  told  her,  "and  so  will  I." 
But,  after  a  second's  thought  he  added :  "I  will  if 
I  can  hire  a  balloon!" 

They  heard  Neb's  excited  voice  out  in  the  corri- 
dor, and,  an  instant  later,  the  old  darkey  hurried 
in.  Immediately  the  Colonel  knew,  from  his  ap- 
pearance, that  something  had  gone  seriously  wrong. 

"What  is  it,  Neb;  what  is  it?"  he  demanded. 

"Fo'  de  Lawd,  sech  news!"  said  Neb.  "Sech 
news !" 

"Neb,  Neb,  what's  the  matter?"  Madge  asked, 
frightened  by  his  manner. 

"Somebody,"  said  the  negro,  "done  gone  smuggle 
in  a  bottle  o'  whiskey  to  dat  mis'able  jockey,  Ike, 
an'  he  am  crazy  drunk!" 

296 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"Drunk!"  cried  the  Colonel,  shocked  inexpres- 
sibly. "And  the  race  this  afternoon!" 

"Marse  Frank  said  you  was  to  come,  suh,  an' 
help  sobuh  him." 

Madge  approached  the  Colonel  anxiously.  "Yes ; 
sober  him,  if  you  have  to  turn  him  inside  out!" 

'  'Fraid  he's  done  on  bofe  sides,  missy ;  drunk 
cl'ar  t'rough,"  said  Neb. 

The  Colonel  grasped  his  hat.  "We'll  try,  we'll 
try,"  he  said.  "Oh,  whisky,  whisky!  What  a  pity 
anyone  can  get  too  much  of  so  good  a  thing!" 

"I  neber  could,  suh,"  Neb  replied,  "but  dat  'ar 
jockey " 

They  hurried  out  together. 

Madge  was  in  intense  distress.  She  knew  what 
this  might  mean.  If  Queen  Bess  could  not  run — 
and  she  could 'not,  certainly,  without  a  jockey — the 
Dyer  Brothers  would  not  buy  her,  probably;  and 
if  she  were  not  sold  in  time,  then  Layson  would  be 
quite  unable  to  meet  the  assessment  on  his  stock 
in  the  coal-mining  company.  She  was  by  no  means 

297 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


certain  what  this  was,  or  what  the  reason  for  it, 
but  she  had  heard  talk  of  it  and  knew  that  it  was 
very  serious.  Almost  beside  herself  with  her  anx- 
iety, she  could  do  nothing  save  sit  there  and  wait 
for  news.  The  entrance,  even  of  Barbara  Holton, 
who  came  in,  now,  was  a  relief  to  her  overtaxed 
nerves. 

"Say,"  said  she,  admitting  Barbara  nearer  to 
good-fellowship  than  she  had  ever  done  before,  "I 
reckon  you  have  heered  the  news — Ike's  drunk — 
dead  drunk !" 

Barbara  regarded  her  excitement  with  a  careful 
calm.  She,  herself,  had  been  excited  by  the  news 
when  it  had  reached  her,  but  a  moment  since,  but 
she  would  not  let  this  girl  know  that.  Her  role 
was  to  endeavor  to  force  the  mountain  girl  back 
into  what  she  thought  her  place,  at  any  cost. 

"Yes,  I've  heard,"  said  she,  "and  it's  too  late  to 
get  another  jockey,  so  Queen  Bess  can't  run." 

She  had  formed  a  plan,  deep  in  her  mind,  and 
had  sought  the  mountain-girl  with  the  skilful 
scheme. 

"Then  Mr.  Frank  is  goin'  to  be  ruined !"  Madge 
exclaimed,  dejectedly. 

"Not  unless  you  wish  it,"  Barbara  replied,  look- 
ing straight  into  her  eyes.  . 

"Dellaw!  Me  wish  that?  Just  you  tell  me  what 
you  mean!" 

The  bluegrass  girl  stood  looking  at  the  moun- 
tain maiden  with  appraising  eye  for  a  few  seconds. 

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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Then  she  crossed  the  room  and  stood  close  by  her 
side,  while  she  tapped  upon  the  table  nervously  with 
her  carefully  gloved  fingers. 

"If  this  sale  fails,  as  it  seems  it  must,"  she  said, 
slowly,  "it  rests  with  you  whether  my  father  will 
advance  the  money  to  pay  the  assessment  on  that 
stock  of  Mr.  Layson's." 

"Your  father  give  him  the  money?"  Madge  said 
in  astonishment.  "Well,  I'd  never  thought  o' 
that!  But  what  have  I  got  to  do  about  it?" 

The  situation  was  a  hard  one,  even  for  the  self- 
possession  of  the  lowlands  girl,  who  had  inherited 
her  father's  coolness  in  emergency  as  well  as  some 
other  traits  less  desirable.  Her  color  rose  and  she 
tried,  earnestly,  to  gather  words  which  would  ex- 
press the  thought  she  had  in  mind  without  including 
a  confession  of  the  weakness  of  her  own  position. 
This  she  could  not,  do,  however.  She  walked  over 
to  the  window,  gazed  from  it,  for  a  moment,  at 
the  passing  crowds,  and  then  returned  to  Madge, 
to  tell  her  bluntly :  "I  want  you  to  go  away  from 
here." 

"Me  go  away?    What  for?" 

It  was  impossible,  Barbara  now  discovered,  to 
make  her  meaning  wholly  clear,  without  some  meas- 
ure of  humiliation.  The  first  thing  that  was,  ob- 
viously, necessary  was  a  statement  of  facts  as  they 
were,  and  this  must  include  confession  of  her  own 
sore  weakness.  She  hesitated,  trying  to  avoid  it, 
but  when  she  quite  decided  that  it  could  not  be 

299 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


helped,  plunged  on  with  a  perfect  frankness.  What 
she  wished  was  immediately  to  gain  her  point.  If 
she  must  eat  a  bit  of  humble  pie  in  order  to  accom- 
plish this,  why,  she  would  eat  it,  much  as  she  dis- 
liked the  diet. 

"Can't  you  see  that  it  is  you  who  stand  between 
Frank  and  me?"  she  cried.  "If  it  hadn't  been  for 
you,  I  should  have  been  his  promised  wife!  If  you 
will  go  away  and  never  see  him  again,  I  can  win 
him  back." 

Madge  was  dumbfounded.  The  cold  and  utter 
selfishness  of  the  girl's  proposal  was  astounding. 
She  looked  at  Barbara  with  eyes  in  which  incredu- 
lous amazement  gave  way,  slowly,  to  an  expression 
of  chill  wonder.  "Say,  you  don't  seem  to  squander 
many  thoughts  on  other  people !  S'posin'  I  happen 
to  love  him  a  little,  myself!" 

Barbara  laughed  scornfully.  Sprung  from  low 
stock,  herelf,  but  reared  in  luxury,  she  had  the  most 
complete  contempt  for  anyone  whom  circumstances 
had  denied  advantages  such  as  she  had  known. 
"You — you  love  him!"  she  exclaimed. 

The  words  had  slipped  from  Madge's  lips  with- 
out forethought,  and,  instantly,  she  very  much  "re- 
gretted them;  but,  now  that  she  had  uttered  them 
she  did  not  so  much  as  think  of  trying  to  recall  them 
or  deny  their  truth.  "Yes,  and  I  ain't  ashamed  of 
it,"  said  she.  "I  do  love  him — a  thousand  times  bet- 
ter nor  you  ever  dreamed  of." 

"What  good  will  it  do  you?"  asked  her  rival, 

300 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


coldly.  "You  don't  suppose  he'll  ever  think  of 
making  you  his  wife !  Why,  look  at  the  difference 
between  you  and  me!" 

"Yes,"  said  Madge,  sarcastically,  "there  is  a 
powerful  sight  of  differ!  You'd  be  willin'  to  ruin' 
him  to  win  him,  while  I'd  be  willin'  to  gin  up  my 
happiness  to  save  him!" 

Barbara,  more  in  earnest  than  she  ever  had  been 
in  her  life  before,  took  a  quick  step  toward  the 
mountain  girl.  "Then  prove  it  by  going  away," 
said  she,  "and  I  will  see  that  my  father  advances 
Frank  Layson  the  money  he  needs."  She  looked 
at  her  eagerly.  "Do  you  promise?" 

"No,"  said  Madge,  with  firm  decision.  "No;  I 
won't." 

"Then  it  is  you  who  will  ruin  him." 

While  they  had  been  talking  an  idea  had  sprung 
to  sudden  flower  in  Madge's  mind.  It  was  a  dar- 
ing, an  unheard  of  plan  that  had  occurred  to  her. 
There  were  details  of  it  which  filled  her  with  shrink- 
ing. She  knew  that  if  she  put  it  into  practice,  and 
it  ever  became  generally  known,  she  would  be  the 
talk  of  Lexington  and  that  not  all  that  talk  would 
be  complimentary.  She  knew  that,  after  she  had 
carried  out  the  plan,  even  the  man  for  whom  she 
thought  of  doing  it  might  look  at  her  with  scorn. 
But  it  was  the  only  plan  which  her  alert  and  anxious 
brain  could  find  which  promised  anything  at  all. 
And  if  it  won,  perhaps — perhaps — he  might  not 


301 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


scorn  her !  At  any  rate  it  was  a  sacrifice,  and  sacri- 
fice for  him  was  an  attractive  thought  to  her. 

"Me  ruin  him?"  she  said  to  Barbara.  "Don't 
you  be  too  sure!  There  is  a  shorter  and  a  better 
way  nor  yours,  to  save  him,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  try  it !" 

The  bluegrass  girl,  astonished,  would  have  ques- 
tioned her,  but  Madge  waited  for  no  questioning. 
Without  another  word  she  hurried  from  the  room, 
in  a  mad  search  for  Colonel  Doolittle. 


From  the  country  round  about  for  miles  the 
planters  had  come  into  Lexington  upon  their 
blooded  mounts,  their  wives,  daughters,  sweet- 
hearts, riding  in  great  carriages.  Now  and  then  a 
vehicle,  coming  from  some  far-away  plantation, 
was  drawn  by  a  gay  four-in-hand,  and  the  drivers  of 
such  equipages,  negroes  always,  showed  a  haughty 
scorn  of  their  black  fellow-men  who  travelled  hum- 
bly on  the  backs  of  mules,  or  trudged  the  long  and 
dusty  way  on  foot.  Gorgeous  were  the  costumes 
of  the  ladies  whom  the  carriages  conveyed;  ele- 
gant the  dress  of  the  gay  gentlemen  who  rode  beside 
the  vehicles  on  prancing  steeds,  gallant  escorts  of 
Kentucky's  lovely  womanhood,  prepared,  especially, 
to  watch  the  carriage-horses  when  the  town  was 
reached  and  guard  against  disasters  due  to  their 
encounter  with  such  disturbing  and  unusual  things 
as  crowds,  brass-bands  and  other  marvels  of  a  great 
occasion. 

302 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Everywhere  upon  the  sidewalks  people  swarmed 
like  ants,  delighted  with  the  calm  perfection  of  the 
day,  the  magnetism  of  the  crowds,  the  blare  of 
martial  music,  the  novelty  of  passing  strangers, 
and,  above  all,  by  the  prospect  of  the  great  race 
which,  for  weeks,  had  been  the  theme  of  conversa- 
tion everywhere  throughout  the  section. 

In  the  spacious  corridors  and  big  bar-rooms  of 
the  city's  hostelries  the  rich  men  of  the  section  vied 
with  flashily  dressed  strangers,  in  magnitude  of 
wagers,  and  the  gambling  fever  spread  from  these 
important  centers  to  the  very  alleys  of  the  negro 
quarters.  Poor  indeed  was  the  old  darkey  who  could 
not  find  two-bits  to  wager  on  the  race;  small,  in- 
deed, the  piccaninny  who  was  not  wise  enough  in 
the  sophisticated  ways  of  games  of  chance  to  lay 
a  copper  with  a  comrade  or  to  join  a  pool  by  means 
of  which  he  and  his  fellows  were  enabled  to  partici- 
pate in  more  important  methods  of  wooing  fickle 
Fortune. 

Here  and  there  and  everywhere  were  the  pic- 
caninnies from  Woodlawn,  the  Layson  place,  cry- 
ing the  virtues  of  the  mare  they  worshipped  and  her 
owner  whom  they  each  and  everyone  adored,  boast- 
ing of  the  wagers  they  had  made,  strutting  in  the 
consciousness  that  ere  the  moment  for  the  great  race 
came  "Unc"  Neb  would  gather  them  together  to 
add  zest  to  the  occasion  with  their  brazen  instru- 
ments and  singing.  The  "Whangdoodles"  were  the 
envy  of  every  colored  lad  in  town  who  was  not  of 

303 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


their  high  elect,  and  created,  about  noon,  a  great 
diversion  upon  one  of  the  main  streets,  by  gather- 
ing, when  they  were  quite  certain  that  their  leader 
could  by  no  means  get  at  them,  and  singing  on  a 
corner  for  more  coppers  to  be  wagered  on  Queen 
Bess.  The  shower  of  coin  which  soon  rewarded 
their  smooth,  well-trained  harmonies,  burned  holes 
in  their  pockets,  too,  until  it  was  invested  in  the 
only  things  which,  on  this  day,  the  lads  thought 
worth  the  purchasing — tickets  on  the  race  in  which 
the  wondrous  mare  would  run. 

Through  the  gay  crowd  old  Neb  was  wandering, 
disconsolate,  burdened  with  the  melancholy  news 
of  the  defection  of  the  miserable  jockey,  looking, 
everywhere,  for  Miss  Alathea  Layson,  but  without 
success.  He  stopped  upon  a  corner,  weary  of  the 
search  and  of  the  woe  which  weighed  him  down. 

"Marse  Frank,"  he  muttered,  "say  I  war  to  tell 
Miss  'Lethe  de  bad  news;  but  he  didn't  tell  me 
how  to  find  a  lady  out  shoppin'.  Needle  in  a  hay- 
stack ain't  nawthin' !  Reckon  'bout  de  bes'  dat  I 
kin  do  is  stand  heah  on  dis  cohnuh  an'  cotch  huh 
when  she  comes  back  to  de  hotel." 

He  stood  there  for  fully  fifteen  minutes,  peering 
in  an  utter  desolation  of  woe,  at  every  passing  face, 
but  finding  nowhere  that  one  which  he  sought. 
Then,  at  a  distance,  he  saw  the  Colonel  coming. 
The  expression  on  the  horseman's  face  amazed  him 
and  filled  him  with  an  instant  hope  that  something 
had  turned  up  to  rob  the  situation  of  the  horror 

304 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


which  had  darkened  it,  for  him,  ever  since  he  had 
discovered  that  the  jockey  had  disgraced  himself. 

"Dar  come  Marse  Gunnel,"  he  exclaimed,  in  his 
astonishment,  "a-lookiri  mighty  happy!  Dat  ain't 
right,  now;  dat  ain't  right,  unduh  de  succum- 
stances." 

He  hurried  to  the  Colonel,  who,  instead  of  seem- 
ing sorrowful,  discouraged,  wroth,  beamed  at  him 
with  a  genial  eye. 

"What's  the  matter,  Neb?"  he  asked.  "You  look 
like  a  funeral !" 

"Dat's  de  way  I  feel,  suh;  wid  no  jockey  fo' 
Queen  Bess  an'  Marse  Frank  good  as  ruined." 

"Neb,"  said  the  Colonel,  coolly,  "you  don't  mean 
to  be  a  liar,  but  you  are  one." 

"What  ?"  cried  the  darkey  in  delight.  "Oh  Marse 
Cunnel,  call  me  anyt'ing  ef  tain't  so  about  de 
mare!" 

"Of  course  it  isn't,"  said  the  Colonel  happily.  "I 
have  found  a  jockey,  Neb;  a  jockey." 

"Praise  de  Lawd!"  cried  the  old  negro. 

"One  of  the  best,"  the  Colonel  went  on,  gaily. 
"Just  come  in  from  the  —from  the  east.  I  engaged 
him  at  once,  so  you  get  word  to  Frank.  In  five 
minutes  we'll  be  on  our  way  out  to  the  track." 

Neb's  spirits  had  instantly  revived.  Six  inches 
droop  was  gone  from  his  old  shoulders.  "It'll  be 
de  grandest  race  eber  run  in  ol'  Kentucky !  Lawsy, 
Cunnel,  won't  it  tickle  you  to  death  to  see  Queen 
Bess  romp  in  a  winnuh  ?" 

305 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Instantly  the  Colonel's  high  elation  faded.  More 
than  the  droop  which  had  been  in  Neb's  shoulders 
now  oppressed  the  horseman's.  His  face  clouded. 
"There  he  goes,  too!"  he  cried.  "Neb,  another 
word  like  that  and  I  shall  brain  you !  Do  you  hear 
me  ?  I — I  shan't  be  there !" 

"Not  be  dar!"  Neb  exclaimed.  "Kain't  swaller 
dat,  suh.  Ef  you  should  miss  dat  race,  why,  you'd 
drop  daid." 

"I  believe  you,  Neb — believe  you.  I  say,  Neb, 
look  here.  I  have  promised  on  the  honor  of  a  Ken- 
tuckian,  never  to  enter  another  race-track.  I  must 
keep  my  word ;  but,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  isn't  there 
a  knot-hole,  that  you  know  of,  somewhere  in  the 
fence,  which  would  let  me  see  the  race  without 
going  inside?" 

Neb  knew  that  race-track  as  he  knew  the  plot 
of  hard-trodden  ground  before  the  little  cabin  where 
he  had  been  born  back  of  the  big  house  out  at 
Woodlawn.  Many  a  race  had  he  seen  surrepti- 
tiously when  he  had  not  funds  to  buy  admission  to 
the  track.  He  grinned,  remembering  talk  which 
he  had  heard  between  the  Colonel  and  Miss  'Lethe, 
and  understanding,  now.  He  laughed.  "Oh,  I  yi !" 
he  cried.  "Marse  Cunnel,  dar  ain't  nobody'll  git 
ahead  of  you!  You  bet  dar  is  a  knot-hole,  not 
fur  off  frum  de  gran'-stan',  neither,  an'  a  tree,  too, 
you  could  climb,  stan's  mighty  handy." 

The  Colonel  groaned.  "I  climb  a  tree  to  peek 
above  a  race-track  fence!"  said  he.  "No;  never. 

306 


7Ar  OLD  KENTUCKY 


They'd  think  I  was  trying  to  save  my  admission 
fee!  The  knot-hole  will  have  to  do  for  me,  Neb. 
You've  saved  me.  Heaven  bless  you!  Have  a 
cigar — they're  good." 

"T'ankee,  suh,"  said  Neb,  reaching  for  the  weed 
the  Colonel  now  held  toward  him.  "Lawsy,  ain't 
dat  jus'  a  whoppuh?  Whah  you-all  git  sech  mon'- 
sous  big  cigahs  as  dat?" 

"I'm  only  smoking  half  as  many,  now,  so  I  get 
'em  double  size,"  the  Colonel  answered,  sighing  but 
not  wholly  miserable. 

Neb  did  not  see  the  humor  of  this  detail.  He 
was  thinking  of  the  race  and  of  Queen  Bess. 
"Hooray  fo'  de  Cunnel!"  he  exclaimed,  irrelevantly, 
to  a  little  group  of  colored  men  who  had  been  gath- 
ering. "Whatever  he  says  yo'  kin  gamble  on. 
Lawsy,  ain't  I  glad  I's  got  my  money  on  Queen 
Bess?  Golly,  won't  Marse  Holton  jes'  feel  cheap 
when  he  done  heahs  dis  news?  Seen  him  down  dar 
in  de  pool-room,  not  so  long  ago,  a-puttin'  up  his 
money  plumb  against  Queen  Bess.  Coin*  to  lose 
it,  suah,  he  will."  He  went  off,  muttering,  and 
shaking  his  old  head.  "Somehow  I  jes'  feels  it  in 
mah  bones  dat  he  ain't  true  to  Marse  Frank,  yes- 
suh.  If  I  evah  fin's  it  out  fo'  suah,  I'll  jes'  paralyse 
him!" 

He  had  quite  forgotten  that  he  had  come  out 
to  find  Miss  Alathea,  and  was  not  looking  for  her 
when  he  actually  stumbled  into  her. 


307 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Why,  Neb,  what  are  you  doing?"  she  said,  re- 
coiling. 

"Pahdon,  pahdon,  please,  Miss  'Lethe,"  said  the 
negro.  "I  was  thinkin'  of  de  sweet  bimeby  an' 
waitin'  fo'  to  tell  de  news  to  you — fust  dat  Ike  got 
drunk  an'  Marse  Frank  war  gwine  hab  to  scratch  de 
mare " 

"Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!  Then  Frank— why,  he'll 
lose  everything!" 

"Hoi'  on,  Miss  'Lethe;  dat  de  fust  half,  only. 
Secon'  half  am  dat  Marse  Gunnel  found  a  jockey 
an'  Queen  Bess  am  gwine  ter  run." 

"Bless  his  heart!"  she  cried.  "I  wonder  if  it's 
wrong  for  me  to  pray  that  that  jockey  will  win." 
She  looked,  almost  embarrassed  at  the  aged  negro 
for  a  moment,  and  then,  mustering  up  courage, 
said:  "Neb,  look  here.  I'm  ashamed  to  acknowl- 
edge so  much  interest  in  a  horse-race,  but  it  seems 
as  if  I  can't  wait  to  hear  of  the  result." 

"Lawsy,  I  don't  blame  you,  none;  feel  dat  way 
mahse'f." 

"I  must  know  the  result  the  instant  the  race  is 
decided." 

"Send  yo'  wuhd  right  off,  Miss  'Lethe." 

"Oh,  I  can't  wait  for  that.  Neb,  I  never  did 
such  a  thing  before  and  never  will  again,  and,  even 
now,  I  won't  enter  a  race-track;  but,  Neb,  isn't 
there  some  place  outside  the  fence  where  I  could 
watch  the  race  without  actually  going  in?" 

Neb  doubled   up  in  silent  laughter.      The   old 

308 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


negro  was  enjoying  life,  exceedingly,  on  this,  the 
day,  which,  for  a  time,  had  seemed  so  full  of  gloom. 
The  white  folks  were  quite  at  his  mercy.  "You 
bet  dar  is,"  said  he,  "a  knot-hole  not  fur  f m  de 
gran'-stan',  an'  a  tree  what  you  could  climb,  right 
handy." 

Miss  Alathea  was  not  favorable  to  the  thought  of 
climbing  trees,  and  said  so.  "No,  no ;  the  knot-hole 
will  be  far  better  for  me." 

"But,  Miss  'Lethe,  why,  de  Gunnel— 

She  did  not  let  him  make  his  explanation.  "Sh ! 
Sh!"  she  hissed.  "Not  a  word  of  this  to  him,  or 
anyone!  Will  you  show  me,  when  the  time 
comes?" 

"Oh,  I'll  show  you,"  Neb  replied,  and  before  he 
had  a  chance  to  add  a  word  she  had  hurried  off 
into  the  crowd. 

"I  war  gwine  to  tell  her  dat  de  Cunnel'd  be  dar, 
too,  but  she  wouldn't  wait  to  heah.  Wai,  I  reckon 
she'll  jes'  fin'  'im  when  she  git  dar." 

Down  the  street  his  piccaninny  band  came  strag- 
gling, looking  for  him. 

"Hoi'  on,  chillun;  hoi'  on,"  he  cried,  and  joined 
them.  "Now  yo'  lissen.  Yo'  is  not  to  make  a 
squawk  until  the  end  of  de  Ashlan'  Oaks.  Yo's  to 
sabe  yo'  bref  to  honuh  ouah  Queen  Bess.  If  she 
wins,  yo'  staht  in  playin'  'Dixie'  as  yo'  nevuh  played 
afo'.  If  she  loses  yo's  to  play,  real  slow  an'  mo'n- 
ful,  'Massa's  in  de  Col',  Col',  Groun'.' ' 

In  the  meantime  the  Colonel,  in  a  quiet  spot,  had 

309 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


joined  the  jockey  who  had  been  discovered  to  take 
the  place  of  drunken  Ike.  The  unknown  rider  was 
wrapped  closely  in  an  ulster,  from  beneath  which 
riding  boots,  unusually  small,  peeped,  now  and  then, 
as  the  feet  within  them  moved  somewhat  nervously 
about. 

"All  right,  are  you?"  he  inquired. 

"I  ain't  afeared,"  the  jockey  answered,  "but  I'm 
powerful  nervous.  Never  had  on  clo'es  like  these 
before,  an' — don't  you  look  at  me !" 

Strange  talk,  this  was,  for  the  jockey  who  was 
soon  to  ride  Queen  Bess  for  the  capture  of  the 
Ashland  Oaks  and  the  salvation  of  the  fortune  of 
the  house  of  Lay  son! 

"Don't  look  at  you!"  said  the  Colonel,  in  ex- 
postulation, and,  in  the  next  sentence,  revealed  a 
secret  which  he  was  guarding  carefully  from  every- 
one. "See  here,  little  girl,  you've  got  to  face  thou- 
sands and  not  wince,  and  you  can't  ride  in  that  over- 
coat, either." 

But  the  jockey  wrapped  the  coat  still  tighter.  "Oh, 
sho !  That  can't  make  no  differ — just  a  little  coat!" 

"I  tell  you  it's  impossible.  It  would  give  the 
game  away  at  once.  Come,  take  it  off.  Practice  up 
on  me." 

The  jockey  shivered  nervously.  "Reckon  I  will 
hev  to.  Say,  turn  your  back  till  I  am  ready." 

The  Colonel  turned  his  back,  somewhat  impa- 
tiently. The  time  was  getting  short.  "All  right, 
but  hurry  up." 

310 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


The  jockey  pulled  the  long  coat  partly  off,  then, 
in  a  panic,  shrugged  it  on  again.  "Oh,  now,  you're 
lookin' !" 

"Not  a  wink,"  declared  the  Colonel. 

"Wai,  here  goes!"  This  time  the  coat  came 
wholly  off  and  the  jockey  \vho  had  been  discovered 
to  take  the  place  of  drunken  Ike  stood  quite  re- 
vealed. The  voice  which  warned  the  Colonel  of 
this  was  a  faint  and  faltering  one.  "Now,"  it  said 
timidly. 

The  Colonel  turned.     "Hurrah!" 

The  jockey  held  the  coat  up  in  a  panic. 

"See  here,  now — none  o'  that!"  the  Colonel 
warned.  "Give  it  to  me."  He  reached  his  hand 
out  for  the  coat,  and,  reluctantly,  the  jockey  let  him 
take  it. 

There  stood  the  trimmest  and  most  graceful  fig- 
ure ever  garbed  in  racing  blouse,  knickers,  boots 
and  cap,  with  flushed  face,  dilating,  frightened  eyes 
and  hands  not  a  little  tremulous.  The  girl  who 
had  told  Barbara  Holton  that  she  would  not  hesi- 
tate to  make  a  sacrifice  to  save  the  man  she  loved 
was  making  one — a  very  great  one — the  sacrifice 
of  what,  her  whole  life  long,  she  had  considered 
fitting  woman's  modesty.  Queen  Bess  must  win 
and  there  was  no  one  else  to  ride  her.  The  moun- 
tain-girl shrank  from  the  thought  of  going,  thus, 
before  a  multitude,  as  shyly  as  would  the  most 
highly  educated  and  most  socially  precise  girl  in 
the  grand-stand,  near,  which,  now,  was  filling  with 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


the  gallantry  and  beauty  of  Kentucky;  but  she  did 
not  let  her  nervous  tremors  conquer  her.  There 
was  no  other  way  to  save  the  day  for  Layson,  and, 
somehow,  the  day  must  certainly  be  saved. 

The  Colonel,  now,  spoke  very  seriously  as  she 
stood  there,  shrinking  from  his  gaze.  There  was 
not  a  smile  upon  his  face.  It  was  plain  that  he  re- 
garded the  whole  matter  with  the  utmost  gravity. 

"Now,  little  one,  you  begin  to  realize  what  this 
means,"  said  he.  "Or — no,  you  don't  and  I've  got 
to  be  square  with  you  if  it  spoils  the  prettiest  horse- 
race ever  seen  in  old  Kentucky.  I  tell  you,  my 
dear  child,  we're  mighty  particular  about  our 
women,  down  here  in  the  bluegrass.  We'd  think 
it  an  eternal  shame  and  a  disgrace  forever  for  one 
of  them  to  ride  a  public  race  in  a  costume  like  the 
one  that  you  have  on,  and  it  would  mean  not  less 
than  social  ruin  to  the  man  that  married  her.  If 
anyone  should  find  it  out,  what  you  are  going  to 
do  might  stand  between  you  and  your  happiness. 
I'm  warning  you  because  I  know  I  ought  to.  Think 
it  over  and  then  tell  me  if  you're  willing  to  face 
it — willing  to  take  all  the  risks." 

"I  don't  need  to  think  it  over,"  Madge  said 
firmly.  "I  said  as  I'd  gin  up  my  happiness  to  save 
him,  an'  I  will.  Colonel,  I've  got  on  my  uniform, 
I've  enlisted  for  th'  war,  an'  I  am  goin'  to  fight  it 
through !" 

"A  thoroughbred!"  he  cried.  "A  thoroughbred, 
and  I  always  said  it  of  you.  Come  on,  little  one." 

312 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Brilliant  as  a  garden  of  flowers  was  the  grand- 
stand where  the  fairest  of  old  Kentucky's  wondrous 
women  were  as  numerous  as  were  her  gallant  men ; 
full  of  handsome  figures  were  the  lawns,  where 
old  Kentucky's  youth  and  manhood  strolled  and 
smoked  and  gossipped  of  the  day's  great  race  to 
come;  like  an  ebon  sea  in  storm  was  the  great 
crowd  of  blacks  which  in  certain  well-defined  limits 
crowded  to  the  rail  about  the  track.  The  blare  of 
the  band  kept  the  air  a-tremble  almost  constantly, 
the  confused,  uneven  murmur  of  a  great  crowd  filled 
the  pauses  between  brazen  outbursts.  Everywhere 
was  life  and  gayety,  intense  excitement,  as  the  mo- 
ment for  the  starting  of  the  famous  Ashland  Oaks 
approached.  The  cries  of  the  book-makers  rose, 
strident,  from  the  betting-ring;  on  the  tracks  the 
jockeys,  exercising  or  trying  out  their  mounts,  were, 
each  after  his  own  kind,  preparing  for  the  struggle 
of  their  lives;  stable-boys,  and  the  hundred  other 
species  of  race-track  hangers-on  which  swarm  at 
such  times  to  the  front,  were  everywhere  in  evi- 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


dence ;  touts  with  shifty  eyes  slipped,  here  and  there, 
among  the  sightseers,  looking  for  some  credulous 
one  who  might  be  willing  to  pay  well  for  doubtful 
information.  Every  minute  amidst  the  throng  the 
words  "Queen  Bess"  might  be  heard  at  any  chosen 
point,  as  the  crowd  gossipped  eagerly  about  the 
horse  which  had  been  looked  on  as  the  favorite,  but 
which,  many  positively  now  declared,  had  been  so 
injured  in  the  fire  that  she  would  run  but  poorly  in 
the  race  which,  it  had  been  thought,  would  be  the 
most  sensational  effort  of  her  life. 

Frank,  nervous  and  excited,  stood  in  the  paddock, 
watch  in  hand,  with  old  Neb  by  his  side. 

"Why  doesn't  that  jockey  come?"  he  asked,  for 
the  hundredth  time,  almost  beside  himself  with 
worry  as  the  moments  slipped  away. 

"He'll  come,  Marse  Frank,"  said  Neb.  "You  kin 
gamble  on  de  Gunnel." 

"If  I  only  knew  what  kind  of  a  jockey  he  is!" 
Then,  as  Horace  Holton  came  up,  smiling  greet- 
ings: "Holton,  how's  the  betting?" 

"Can't  you  hear?"  said  Holton,  as  a  vagrant 
breeze  brought  to  their  ears  bits  of  the  vocal  tumult 
from  the  betting-ring. 

"Ten  to  nine  against  Queen  Bess,"  Frank  heard 
a  voice  call  loudly,  although  the  crowd's  great  mur- 
mur made  the  words  come  indistinctly  to  his  ears. 
"Even  on  Catalpa,"  was  the  next  penetrating  cry, 
and  then:  "Two  to  one,  Evangeline!" 

The  young  owner  shuddered.     Could  it  be  pos- 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


sible  that  Neb  was  right  and  that  the  Colonel's 
jockey  would  appear  on  time,  or  were  the  dire 
predictions  of  defeat  which,  he  knew,  were  being 
made  everywhere  around  him,  true  prophecies? 
Tales  of  all  but  fatal  injuries  to  the  handsome  mare 
had  been  freely  circulated,  and,  despite  denials  in 
the  newspapers,  were  still  alive,  and  these  he  knew 
to  be  quite  false;  but  he  knew  of  the  other  dire  dis- 
aster— the  defection  of  his  jockey — of  which  the 
crowd  was  also  well  aware.  He  had  not  the  slight- 
est doubt  that  if  Queen  Bess  should  run  at  all  she 
would  do  all  that  her  best  friends  expected  of  her 
and  more;  but  it  seemed  to  him  a  possibility  that 
he  would  find  it  necessary,  at  the  last  minute,  to 
withdraw  her  from  the  race  entirely,  for  sheer  lack 
of  a  rider. 

Again  the  breeze  brought  from  the  betting-ring 
the  loud  shouts  of  the  book-makers.  The  message 
that  they  told  was  most  depressing  to  the  worried 
owner. 

"Why,  this  morning  she  was  the  favorite,"  he 
said,  "and  now  the  odds  are  all  against  her!" 

Holton  nodded.  "On  the  strength  o'  this  jockey 
as  nobody  knows.  Got  any  money  on,  yourself, 
Layson  ?" 

"Not  a  cent.    I've  enough  at  stake,  already." 

Holton  smiled  unpleasantly,  intimating  that 
Frank's  lack  of  betting  on  his  horse  was  proof 
positive  that  the  worst  tales  told  were  true.  "That 


315 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


settles  it.  The  bookies  are  right.  Th'  mare's  no 
chance  with  a  new  jockey,  an'  you  know  it." 

"If  I  were  betting,"  said  Frank  angrily,  "I'd  back 
her  with  every  dollar  that  I  have  on  earth." 

Holton  smiled  at  him  unpleasantly.  "I  say  she 
can't  win  and  you  know  it."  He  waited  for  some 
answer  from  the  anxious  owner,  but  received  none. 
Then,  taking  out  his  check-book:  "See  here — I'll 
bet  you  five-thousand  even  against  her!" 

Frank,  annoyed  but  helpless,  shook  his  head.  "I 
haven't  the  money,"  he  admitted. 

"You  ain't  got  the  sand !"  said  Holton,  aggravat- 
ing^- 

Frank  turned  from  him  angrily,  and  old  Neb,  who 
had  listened,  stepped  quickly  up  to  him.  "Marse 
Frank,"  he  pleaded,  "don'  yo'  let  dat  white-trash 
bluff  yo'!"  The  old  darkey's  voice' was  tremulous, 
his  eyes  were  moist  with  feeling  for  his  humiliated 
master.  A  great  resolve  thrilled  through  him.  "See 
heah,  honey,  I's  be'n  sabin'  all  mah  life.  Fs  got  a 
pile  o'  money  in  de  bank.  Take  it  all,  now,  honey, 
an'  bet  it  on  Queen  Bess." 

Frank  shook  his  head,  but  smiled  at  the  old 
darkey,  touched  alike  by  his  devotion  to  himself 
and  confidence  in  the  mare  they  both  loved.  "No, 
no,  Neb;  not  your  money,"  he  replied.  He  stood 
in  deep  thought,  for  a  moment,  tapping  the  ground 
nervously  with  worried  foot.  "But  I'll  back  the 
mare  for  all  I'm  worth!"  he  finally  declared.  "If 
she  loses,  I'm  a  ruined  man,  anyway."  He  turned, 

316 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


now,  to  Holton.  "Holton,"  he  said,  "I've  got  just 
three  thousand  dollars  in  the  bank.  I'll  put  it  all 
on  Queen  Bess  against  your  five-thousand." 

It  seemed,  almost,  as  if  Holton  had  been  waiting 
for  this  offer,  for  his  smile  broadened  as  he  found 
that  he  had  goaded  Layson  into  making  it.  "I'll 
take  it,"  he  said  quickly,  and  then,  turning  to  the 
crowd  about  them,  among  which  were  some  of  the 
state's  best  citizens,  he  added :  "Gentlemen,  you're 
witnesses.  Three-thousand  against  five-thousand 
on  Queen  Bess." 

They  nodded,  and  not  one  of  them  but  looked 
at  Layson  with  commiseration,  as  at  a  man  fore- 
doomed to  bitter  disappointment. 

Neb,  however,  grinned  at  Holton  impishly. 
"Yes ;  you'll  look  mighty  sick  when  yo'  hab  to  pay 
it,  too." 

From  the  judge's  stand  rang  out  the  silvery  notes 
of  a  quavering  bugle-call,  and  Holton  smiled  un- 
pleasantly. 

"The  call  to  th'  post,"  said  he,  "an'  whar's  your 
jockey  ?" 

"He'll  be  here  on  time,"  said  Frank,  voicing  a 
confidence  which  it  was  hard  for  him  to  feel.  He 
turned,  then,  to  the  darkey.  "Neb,  bring  out  Queen 
Bess." 

The  excitement,  all  around  them,  was  intensify- 
ing, every  minute.  Jockeys,  now,  were  mounting 
their  horses,  and  riding  off  for  the  short  canter  to 
the  judges'  stand.  As  each  appeared  in  view  of  the 

317 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


great  crowd  in  and  about  the  grand-stand  a  mighty 
shout  arose. 

Holton's  smile  was  broadening.  "If  that  jockey 
doesn't  show  up  mighty  quick,"  he  sneered,  "you're 
out  of  the  race." 

Just  as  he  spoke  old  Neb  returned,  with  the 
superb  mare  behind  him,  saddled,  bridled,  ready 
for  the  race,  fretting  at  her  bit,  impatient  of  the 
crowds  and  noise. 

"Who  knows  whether  he's  coming,  at  all?"  said 
Holton,  a  bit  dashed  at  sight  of  the  fine  mare's 
superb  condition,  but  still  sneering.  "Nobody's 
seen  him." 

Neb  looked  off  toward  the  weighing-room.  "Yo* 
're  wrong,"  he  shouted,  capering  with  amazing  spry- 
ness  for  one  whose  limbs  were  old  and  stiff,  "fo' 
heah  he  comes !" 

Every  member  of  the  party  turned,  in  haste,  to 
look  in  the  direction  whence  Neb  pointed. 

They  saw  a  slight,  graceful  figure,  dressed  in  the 
brilliant  colors  of  the  Layson  stable,  which,  with- 
out so  much  as  glancing  at  them,  ran  to  Queen 
Bess  and  took  a  place  upon  the  far  side  of  the  mare, 
where,  stooping  as  if  to  look  carefully  to  the  sad- 
dle-girths, its  face  was  quickly  hidden.  But,  even 
as  the  jockey  stooped,  one  of  his  hands  held  out 
to  Frank,  across  the  saddle,  a  little  folded  paper. 

Without  paying  much  attention  to  the  jockey, 
Layson  took  this  note  and  hastily  unfolded  it.  "It's 


318 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


from  the  Colonel,"  he  announced.     "I  knew  he'd 
never  fail  me." 

Then  he  read,  aloud,  so  all  might  hear: 

"This  will  be  handed  to  you  by  a  jockey  I  have 
just  engaged.  He  comes  from  the  east  and  is 
highly  recommended.  I  know  his  endorser.  Re- 
gretting that  the  promise  of  a  Kentuckian  prevents 
me  from  being  with  you,  I  am  yours  regretfully, 
on  the  outside,  SANDUSKY  DOOLITTLE." 

"It's  all  right!"  Frank  shouted,  gleefully,  and 
then,  to  the  strange  jockey:  "Quick,  on  the  mare 
and  off  to  the  post !" 

Without  a  word,  without  a  second's  pause, 
Madge,  for  the  unknown  jockey  was,  of  course,  the 
little  mountain  girl,  jumped  upon  Queen  Bess  and 
hastily  rode  off,  to  be  greeted,  with  a  mighty  out- 
burst of  cheering  and  applause  as  the  favorite  ap- 
peared before  the  waiting  crowds  in  unmistakably 
fine  condition  and  mounted  by  a  rider  whose  every 
movement  showed  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the  work 
and  complete  sympathy  with  the  beautiful  animal 
he  rode. 

Doomed  by  his  promise  on  the  honor  of  a  gen- 
tleman to  Miss  Alathea.  to  witnessing  the  race  from 
the  outside,  if  he  witnessed  it  at  all,  Colonel  San- 
dusky  Doolittle,  fully  aware  of  the  unusual  interest 
of  the  moments,  some  account  of  which  has  just 
been  made,  was  sunk  in  melancholy  after  he  had 

319 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


sent  Madge  through  the  magic  portals,  with  ex- 
plicit instructions  as  to  exactly  what  to  do  when 
once  she  was  safe  inside.  He  was  breathing  hard 
from  the  mere  exertion  of  preventing  his  unruly 
feet  from  running  to  the  gate,  of  keeping  his  un- 
ruly hand  from  diving  deep  into  his  pocket  for  the 
entrance  fee.  These  preventions  he  accomplished, 
though,  without  once  really  weakening,  and  was 
safe  at  a  good  distance  from  the  tempting  gate 
when  the  crowd  within  began  to  shout  as  the  horses 
were  brought  out. 

"There,  they're  bringing  out  the  horses!"  he  ex- 
claimed, unhappily.  He  set  his  jaws  as  might  one 
who,  with  a  great  effort,  abstains  from  food  when 
famishing.  "I  didn't  go  in!"  he  muttered.  "I've 
kept  my  word,  though  it  has  nearly  finished  me!" 

Anxiously,  if  hurriedly,  he  searched  along  the 
fence  for  the  knot-hole  Neb  had  told  him  of. 
Twice,  in  his  great  eagerness,  he  passed  it  by,  "but, 
on  the  third  inspection  he  discovered  it,  and  placed 
his  eye  to  it.  In  a  moment  he  backed  away,  de- 
jectedly. "I  can't  see  worth  a  cent!"  he  bitterly 
complained.  "It's  not  hole  enough  for  me !"  Lost, 
in  his  disappointment,  even  to  shame  for  the 
wretched  pun,  he  straightened  up,  surveying  his 
immediate  surroundings. 

Close  by  was  the  tree  which  Neb  had  also  spoken 
of.  He  examined  it  with  an  appraising  eye,  then 
looked  about  to  see  what  spectators  were  near.  No 
one  was  in  sight  save  a  pair  of  piccaninnies,  down 

320 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


the  fence  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  with  eyes  glued 
to  other  knot-holes  or  to  cracks. 

"To  the  deuce  with  dignity!"  he  cried.  "I'll  just 
inspect  that  tree." 

He  was  doing  this  with  care,  when,  breathless 
and  eager,  a  lady  hurried  toward  him.  As  the  tree 
intervened  between  them  he  did  not  see  her  coming, 
nor  did  she  note  his  presence.  It  would  have  been 
quite  plain  to  anyone  who  had  observed  her  that 
she  was  engaged  upon  a  quest  much  like  that  which 
he  had  pursued,  for  she  carefully  inspected  each 
plank  in  the  high  fence,  as,  slowly  and  cautiously 
lest  she  should  pass  unheeded  that  which  she  was 
seeking  eagerly,  she  made  her  way  in  his  direction. 

"Everybody's  at  the  races,"  she  thought,  com- 
forting herself.  "I'm  perfectly  safe.  No  one  in 
the  world  will  see  me.  .  .  .  But  where  is  that 
blessed  knot-hole?" 

Suddenly  her  eye  chanced  on  it,  and,  an  instant 
later,  was  applied  to  it,  the  while  the  Colonel 
paused,  with  his  back  to  her,  still  anxiously  inspect- 
ing the  tree. 

"Ah !"  said  Miss  Alathea,  aloud,  as  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  something  interesting  inside  the  fence. 

Instantly  the  Colonel  turned  and  looked  down 
at  her,  startled.  Then :  "A  woman !"  he  exclaimed, 
beneath  his  breath.  "A  woman  at  my  knot-hole!" 

Firmly  determined  to  maintain  his  right  he  sternly 
approached  her. 

"Madam!"  he  exclaimed,  as  incensed  by  her  usur- 

321 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


pation  of  the  knot-hole  as  he  would  have  been,  at 
ordinary  times,  by  theft  of  watch  or  pocket-book, 
and  tapped  her  lightly  on  the  shoulder. 

She  shrank  back  from  the  knot-hole,  startled 
and  indignant.  "Sir!"  she  cried,  and  then,  as  he 
recognized  her,  she  turned  and  saw  who  had  ad- 
dressed her. 

"Colonel  Sandusky  Doolittle!"  she  exclaimed, 
amazed. 

"Miss  Alathea  Layson !"  cried  the  Colonel,  equally 
amazed,  at  first,  but  winding  up  his  gesture  of  sur- 
prise with  a  low  and  courtly  bow. 

"Colonel,  what  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Madame,"  he  countered,  "what  are  you  doing 
here?" 

Miss  Alathea's  dignity  forsook  her.  "Colonel," 
she  confessed,  "I  couldn't  wait  to  hear  the  result." 

"No  more  could  I,"  he  somewhat  sheepishly  ad- 
mitted. 

"But  I  didn't  enter  the  race-track,"  she  explained 
in  haste. 

"I  was  equally  firm." 

"And  Neb  told  me  of  this  knot-hole." 

"The  rascal— he  told  me  of  it,  too." 

"Colonel,"  she  said,  smiling,  "we  must  forgive 
each  other.  If  you  really  must  look,  there  is  the 
knot-hole." 

"No,  Miss  'Lethe,"  he  said  gallantly,  "I  resign 
the  knot-hole  to  you.  I  shall  climb  the  tree."  With- 
out delay  (for  sounds  from  the  barrier's  far  side 

322 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


hinted  to  his  practiced  ear  that  matters  of  much 
moment  were  progressing,  there)  he  scrambled  with 
much  more  difficulty  than  dignity  into  the  spread- 
ing crotch. 

"Oh,  be  careful  Colonel!"  Miss  Alathea  cried, 
alarmed.  "Don't  break  your  neck!"  But  she 
added,  as  an  afterthought:  "But  be  sure  to  get 
where  you  can  see." 

"Ah,  what  a  gallant  sight !"  he  cried  as  he  found 
himself  in  a  position  whence  he  could  command  a 
view  of  the  exciting  scene  within  the  barrier. 
"There's  Catalpa  .  .  .  and  Evangeline  .  .  . 
and  .  .  .  yes,  there  is  Queen  Bess !" 

A  burst  of  cheering  rose  from  the  crowd  within. 

Miss  Alathea  was  on  tip-toe  with  excitement. 
"What's  that?"  she  begged. 

"A  false  start,"  he  answered,  scarcely  even  glanc- 
ing down  at  her.  "They'll  make  it  this  time, 
though,"  he  added,  and  she  could  see  his  knuckles 
whiten  with  the  strain  as  he  gripped  a  rough  limb 
of  the  tree  with  vise-like  fingers. 

A  moment  later  and  the  shouting  became  a  very 
tempest  of  sound. 

"They're  off!"  he  cried,  staring  through  his  field 
glasses  in  an  excitement  which  promised,  if  he  did 
not  curb  it,  to  send  him  tumbling  from  his  shaky 
foothold.  "Oh,  what  a  splendid  start!" 

"Who's  ahead?"  inquired  Miss  A!athea,  very 
much  excited.  "Colonel,  who's  ahead?" 


323 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Catalpa  sets  the  pace,  the  others  lying  well 
back." 

"Why  doesn't  Queen  Bess  come  to  the  front?" 
Miss  Alathea  cried,  as  if  he  were  to  blame  for  the 
disquieting  news  he  had  reported  to  her.  "Oh," 
she  exclaimed,  to  the  Colonel's  great  astonishment, 
"if  I  were  only  on  that  mare!" 

"At  the  half,"  the  Colonel  shouted,  beside  him- 
self with  worry,  "Evangeline  takes  the  lead  .  .  . 
Catalpa  next  .  .  .  the  rest  are  bunched." 

Miss  Alathea,  at  the  moment,  was  trying  to  see 
satisfactorily,  through  the  very  knot-hole  which  the 
Colonel  had  abandoned.  She  sprang  from  it  hast- 
ily, however,  and  to  the  foot  of  the  tree  which  acted 
as  his  pedestal,  when  he  exclaimed : 

"Oh,  great  heavens!  There's  a  fall  ...  a 
jam  .  .  .  and  Queen  Bess  is  left  behind  three 
lengths!"  He  leaned  so  far  out  that  he  heard  the 
limb  beneath  him  crack,  and,  in  hastening  to  a 
firmer  footing,  almost  lost  his  balance.  This  star- 
tled, him,  and,  for  an  instant,  took  his  eager  gaze 
away  from  the  struggling  horses  on  the  track 
within,  but  he  quickly  regained  poise.  "She  hasn't 
the  ghost  of  a  show!"  he  cried,  disheartened. 
"Look!  Look!" 

Miss  Alathea  hugged  the  tree  and  looked,  not  at 
the  horses,  for  that  was  quite  impossible,  but  up  at 
him  with  wide,  imploring  eyes. 

"She's  at  it  again,  though,  now !"  he  cried.    "It's 


324 


'LOOK!  LOOK!    IN  THE  STRETCH!    HER  HEAD  is  AT  CATALPA'*  rnrrr*»!  ' 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


beyond  anything  mortal,  but  she's  gaining     .     .     . 
gaining !" 

Miss  Alathea's  excitement  now  was  every  bit  as 
great  as  his.  She  had  never  seen  a  race  in  all  her 
life,  yet,  now,  she  performed  there  at  the  foot  of 
the  great  tree,  a  series  of  evolution  not  unlike  those 
of  many  a  "rooter"  at  the  track  within.  She 
jumped  up  and  down  upon  her  toes,  clenched  her 
hands  and  cried :  "Oh,  keep  it  up!  Keep  it  up!" 

"At  the  three-quarters  she's  only  five  lengths  be- 
hind the  leader  and  still  gaining!"  cried  the  Colo- 
nel, in  excited  optimism. 

Miss  Alathea  could  no  longer  endure  the  agony 
of  waiting  on  the  ground  for  his  reports.  Instead 
she  tried  to  scramble  to  his  side,  but,  failing,  ut- 
terly, to  accomplish  this  unaided,  held  her  hands  up 
to  him,  crying:  "Oh,  pull,  pull!  I  can't  stand  it! 
I've  just  got  to  see!" 

The  Colonel  turned  upon  his  perch  and  looked 
down  at  her,  smiling.  "Coming  up,  Miss  'Lethe?" 
he  inquired.  "All  right,  don't  break  your  neck,  but 
get  where  you  can  see."  Hastily  he  gave  her  such 
assistance  as  his  absorbed  attention  to  the  events 
within  the  fence  permitted,  and,  with  a  wild  scram- 
ble, she  found  herself  close  by  his  side,  holding  half 
to  him,  half  to  a  curving  branch. 

"Look !    Look !"  he  cried,  again.    "In  the  stretch ! 
Her  head  is  at  Catalpa's  crupper    .     .     .     now  at 
her  saddle-bow    ...    but  she  can't  gain  a: 
inch.     Still    ...    yes    ...    yes 

325 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


lifts  her!  See!  .  .  .  See!  .  .  .  Great  God! 
She  wins!" 

Within  the  fence  wild  pandemonium  broke  loose. 
The  crowd  went  mad  with  shouting.  Hats,  hand- 
kerchiefs, canes,  umbrellas,  flew  into  the  air  as  if 
blown  upward  by  the  mad  explosion  of  the  crowd's 
enthusiasm.  The  band  was  playing  "Dixie." 

Frank  and  Neb  rushed  forward  to  lift  from  the 
winner  the  victorious  jockey,  who  by  such  superb 
riding  as  that  track  had  never  seen  before,  had 
snatched  victory  from  defeat  after  the  mare  had 
been  delayed  in  the  bad  pocket  which,  from  his  dis- 
tant point  of  survey,  had  alarmed  the  Colonel.  The 
jockey  eluded  them,  however  and,  with  face 
averted,  hurried  with  the  splendid  mare  back  to  the 
paddock,  and  there  disappeared,  disregarding  the 
crowd's  wild  shouts  of  acclamation. 

Holton  stood  near  Frank,  white-faced  and  an- 
gry. Old  Neb,  as  he  ran  beside  Queen  Bess,  looked 
back  at  him  and  grinned. 


326 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Miss  Alathea,  on  the  day  after  the  great  race, 
sat  waiting  for  the  Colonel  in  the  handsome  old 
library  of  Woodlawn,  worrying  about  her  uncon- 
ventionalities  of  the  preceding  day.  When  she 
heard  his  voice,  out  in  the  hall,  telling  Neb  to  carry 
certain  bundles  into  the  library  and  knew,  of  course, 
that  he  would  follow  after  them  almost  immedi- 
ately, her  heart  throbbed  fiercely  in  her  bosom.  She 
shrank  back  into  a  window  recess,  too  embarrassed 
to  face  him  without  first  pausing  to  gather  up  her 
courage. 

"Put  'em  there,  Neb,"  said  the  Colonel,  pointing 
to  the  table,  and  then,  after  the  packages  had  been 
arranged  to  suit  him :  "Here,  take  this,  and  drink 
to  the  jockey  that  rode  Queen  Bess." 

"T'ankee,  Marse  Cunnel,  t'ankee,"  Neb  replied, 
pocketing  the  tip.  "Oh,  warn't  it  gran'  ?  An'  yo' 
climbed  de  tree,  arter  all!" 

"Sh!     Clear  out,  you  rascal!" 

Neb  did  not  go  at  once,  but,  with  the  boldness  of 
an  old  and  privileged  retainer,  stood  there,  chuck- 

327 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


ling.  "Climbed  de  tree!"  he  gurgled.  "An'  so  did 
Miss  'Lethe!" 

With  this  he  slapped  his  knee,  and,  laughing 
boisterously,  left  the  room  as  the  embarrassed  lady 
of  the  house  stepped  out  of  her  concealment. 

"Ah,  Miss  'Lethe,"  said  the  Colonel,  "good  morn- 
ing." 

"I  expected  you  back  from  Lexington  last  night, 
Colonel."  She  looked  at  him  reproachfully. 

"Stayed  over  to  celebrate,  my  dear,"  the  Colo- 
nel answered.  "Stayed  to  celebrate  the  victory." 
With  a  beaming  face  he  advanced  upon  the  lady, 
plainly  planning  an  embrace. 

But  she  eluded  him.  "Wait  a  moment,  Colo- 
nel. On  what  did  you  celebrate?" 

The  Colonel  laughed.  "Oh,  I  didn't  forget.  I 
celebrated  on  ginger-ale  and  soda-pop." 

Miss  Alathea  smiled  with  happy  satisfaction.  She 
eluded  him  no  longer,  but,  herself,  went  to  him 
and  bestowed  the  kiss. 

"I  doubt  if  my  stomach  ever  recovers  from  the 
insult,"  said  the  Colonel,  delighted  by  the  kiss  but 
remembering  the  mildness  of  the  beverages  which 
had  marked  his  jubilation.  "Miss  'Lethe,  a  julep 
— a  mint-julep — before  I  perish." 

With  a  smile  she  crossed  the  room  to  where,  upon 
the  side-board  (a  side-board  is  an  adjunct  of  all 
well-regulated  libraries  in  old  Kentucky),  a  snowy 
damask  cloth  concealed  glorious  somethings.  With 
a  graceful  sweep  she  took  it  from  them  and  re- 

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IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


vealed  three  juleps  in  their  glory  of  green-crowns. 
"Look,  Colonel!" 

"Three!  Great  heavens!"  the  Colonel  cried,  de- 
lighted. He  took  one  and  disposed  of  it  in  haste. 

"I  mixed  them  myself,"  Miss  'Lethe  said. 

The  Colonel  drank  another,  but  less  rapidly. 

"Remember,"  she  said,  warningly,  "three  and 
no  more!" 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  granted.  "I  must  save  the  other 
one."  It  was  difficult  to  sip  it,  for  Miss  Alathea's 
juleps  were  like  nectar  to  his  thirsty  palate,  but  he 
restrained  himself  and  drank  of  this  last  ambrosial 
glass  with  great  deliberation,  trying  to  make  it  last 
as  long  as  possible. 

"What  are  all  those  bundles,  Colonel?"  asked 
Miss  Alathea,  pointing  to  the  packages  which  old 
Neb  had  brought  in. 

"They're  for  Madge.  She  bought  them  yester- 
day." He  sighed.  "Ah,  will  you  ever  forget  yes- 
terday?" 

"Oh,  don't  speak  of  it!" 

"Can't  help  it."  The  Colonel  waxed  enthusiastic 
at  the  mere  memory  of  the  great  occasion.  "Whoo- 
pee!" he  cried.  "What  a  race  it  was!" 

"To  think,"  said  Miss  Alathea,  "that  I—I— 
should  enter  a  race-track!" 

"To  think  that  7— should  stay  out  of  one !" 

"It  was  all  your  fault,  Colonel,"  said  Miss  Al- 
athea. "In  your  excitement  after  the  race  you 
grasped  my  hand  and  I  was  compelled  to  follow." 

329 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"How  strange!"  exclaimed  the  Colonel,  slowly, 
with  a  slight  smile  tickling  at  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  "At  times  I  fancied  you  were  in  the  lead, 
I  following." 

"Colonel,"  said  the  lady  slowly,  "perhaps  I  might 
as  well  confess.  I've  made  a  discovery.  The  sin 
isn't  so  much  in  looking  at  the  horses  run — it's  in 
betting  on  them.  That's  where  souls  are  lost." 

"And  likewise  money,"  said  the  Colonel,  nod- 
ding, gravely. 

"So,  Colonel,  if  you'll  promise  not  to  bet,  I've  no 
objection  to  your  attending  the  races  in  modera- 
tion." 

In  delighted  amazement  the  Colonel  forgot  that 
that  last  julep  could  be  brought  to  a  quick  end  by 
hurried  management  and  took  a  hasty  and  a  mam- 
moth swallow.  "What!"  he  cried.  "Can  I  believe 
it?  Miss  'Lethe,  you're  an  angel !  It's  the  last  drop 
in  my  cup  of  happiness !" 

Miss  Alathea  shyly  smiled — smiled,  indeed,  a  bit 
shame- facedly.  "There's  one  condition,  Colonel — 
that  you  take  me  along — yes,  to  watch  over  you." 

"Take  you  with  me?"  said  the  Colonel.  He 
paused  in  puzzled  contemplation  of  her  for  an  in- 
stant. "Oh,  I  catch  on.  You'll  go  with  the  chil- 
dren to  see  the  animals!"  He  laughed.  "You 
rather  like  it."  He  became  enthusiastic.  "No  more 
knot-holes  or  trees  for  us !  At  last — two  souls  with 
but  a  single  thought,  two  hearts  that  beat  when 


330 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Queen  Bess  won!  Here's  to  our  future  happi- 
ness!" 

He  raised  the  glass  and  would  have  drunk  from 
it,  but,  now,  alas!  the  glass  was  empty.  It  sur- 
prised and  grieved  him,  but,  when  Miss  Alathea 
held  her  hand  out,  quietly,  for  the  vessel  which 
had  held  the  final  julep  but  which  now  held  it  no 
longer,  he  yielded  it  up  gracefully  nor  asked  her 
to  refill  it. 

As  Miss  Alathea  placed  the  empty  glass  upon 
the  sideboard  Madge  entered  from  the  hallway. 
She  ran  up  to  the  Colonel.  "I  heard  you'd  come," 
she  said,  "an'  couldn't  wait.  Say,  air  it  all  fixed 
about  Queen  Bess?" 

"Fixed?"  cried  the  gallant  horseman.  "Well  I 
should  remark!  Queen  Bess  is  sold  and  paid  for 
and  a  draft  for  the  assessment  forwarded  to  the 
Company.  Inside  of  a  year  Frank  will  have  the  in- 
come of  a  prince." 

"All,"  said  Miss  Alathea,  "owing  to  that  mys- 
terious jockey  who  disappeared  immediately  after 
the  race.  Oh,  I'd  like  to  kiss  that  boy !" 

"If  you  did,  I  should  not  be  jealous,"  said  the 
Colonel  with  an  air  of  generosity. 

"Miss  'Lethe,  kiss  me.  Won't  I  do  as  well?" 
Madge  asked,  going  to  her. 

Miss  Alathea  kissed  her,  but  was  still  thinking 
of  the  unknown  jockey,  who,  in  the  nick  of  tune, 
had  come  from  nowhere,  materialized  from  noth- 
ing, to  save  the  day  for  Frank  by  riding  Queen 

331 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Bess  to  victory.  "I  feel  as  if  I  must  know  his 
name,"  she  said.  "Madge,  help  me  persuade  the 
Colonel  to  tell  us."  She  went  to  him  and  petted 
him.  "Colonel,  you  will  not  refuse  me!" 

Madge  looked  at  him  apprehensively,  warningly. 
"An'  I  reckon  you  won't  refuse  me,  Colonel." 
Then,  going  close  to  him,  she  whispered :  "Re- 
member, mum's  the  word!" 

"Away,  you  tempters,  away!"  the  Colonel  cried, 
and  waved  them  from  him.  "It's  a  professional 
secret,  and  I've  promised  to  keep  it  on  the  honor 
of  a  Kentucky  gentleman — just  as  I  promised  you, 
Miss  'Lethe." 

"As  you  promised  me?  That's  enough,  Colo- 
nel— not  another  word!" 

Madge  nodded,  smilingly.  "That's  right,  Colo- 
nel. Mustn't  break  your  word."  Just  then  she 
caught  sight  of  the  bundles  which  the  Colonel  had 
had  Neb  bring  in.  "Oh,  are  them  my  bundles, 
Colonel?" 

"Every  one  of  them." 

The  girl  hurried  to  the  mysteriously  fascinating 
packages  and  began  investigation  of  their  contents. 
"Thank  ye,  thank  ye!"  she  exclaimed,  while  she 
was  busy  with  the  wrappings.  "Awful  good  of 
you  to  bring  'em."  Then,  to  Miss  Alathea  in  ex- 
planation: "Things  I  bought  yesterday,  Miss 
'Lethe,  all  by  myself.  Jus'  went  wild.  Reckon 
I'll  let  you  an'  th'  Colonel  see  'em."  She  took  a 


332 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


large,  dressed  doll  out  of  its  wrappings.  "Look  at 
that!" 

"What  a  beauty!"  cried  the  Colonel. 

"Can  talk,  too."  Madge  pressed  the  wondrous 
puppet's  shirred  silk  chest.  "Ma-ma,"  it  cried. 
"Ma-ma." 

"Never  had  nothin'  but  a  rag-doll,  myself,"  the 
girl  went  on,  delighted  by  their  approval  of  this 
automatic  wonder.  "  'Tain't  for  me.  It's  for  a 
little  girl  as  lives  up  in  th'  mountings." 

From  the  doll  she  turned  to  an  amazing  jumping- 
jack,  the  next  treasure  taken  from  the  packages. 
She  pulled  the  toy's  animating  strings  and  watched 
its  antics  with  delight.  "Mos'  as  lively  as  a  Ken- 
tucky Colonel  climbin'  a  tree,"  said  she,  and  laughed 
roguishly  at  the  horseman.  "Oh,  I  heard  of  it;  I 
heard  of  it." 

The  Colonel  tried  in  vain  to  protest,  Madge's 
laughter  kept  up  merrily,  as  she  took  an  old-fash- 
ioned carpet-sack  from  quite  the  biggest  of  the  bun- 
dles and  began  to  pack  her  purchases  in  it,  until 
the  Colonel  and  Miss  Alathea  left  the  room,  gaily 
protesting  at  her  ridicule. 

Instantly  all  of  the  signs  of  high  elation  van- 
ished from  the  girl's  face.  She  drooped.  Left 
alone,  it  quickly  became  plain  that  her  recent  ani- 
mation had  been  forced,  unreal.  Well  I  guess  I'd 
better  not  open  up  th'  other  bundles,"  she  said  list- 
lessly. "I'll  pack  'em  as  they  be.  It's  time  I 
started  too.  I'm  goin'  back  to  the  mountings." 

333 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Softly  she  hummed  the  air  the  darkies  had  been 
singing  when  she  came  into  the  room. 

"Weep  no  more,  my  lady,  oh,  weep  no  more  to-day, 
I  will  sing  one  song  of  my  old  Kentucky  home, 
Then  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good-night !" 

There  was  infinite  pathos  in  her  half -unconscious 
rendition  of  the  plaintive,  darkey  melody.  To  the 
mountain  girl  the  moment  was  full  of  sadness.  She 
had  come  down  from  her  mountains  to  save  the 
man  she  loved  from  the  assassin's  bullet  and  had 
saved  him,  not  from  that  alone,  but  from  a  crush- 
ing blow  to  hope  and  fortune.  Her  work  was  done. 
All  that  now  was  left  to  her  was  to  go  back  to  her 
little  cabin,  hiding  the  secret  of  her  love  for  him 
in  her  sore  heart,  enshrining,  there,  the  memory  of 
every  minute  she  had  ever  passed  with  him  as  holy 
memories  to  comfort  her  in  days  to  come.  Melan- 
choly thoughts  pressed  on  her  hard. 

Frank  entered. 

He  stopped  short  in  the  doorway,  looking  with 
amazement  at  her  work  of  packing  for  departure. 

"Why,  Madge !"  said  he.  "What  does  this  mean  ? 
Packing  up!  Surely  you're  not  going  away!" 
There  was  a  thrill  of  real  distress  in  his  pleasant, 
vibrant  voice  which  comforted  her. 

"Yes,  I'm  going  back  to  th'  mountings.  I  was 
.  .  .  goin'  afore,  but  I  couldn't  miss  that  hoss- 
race." 

"Madge,"  he  cried  impulsively,  "you  must  not 

334 


•IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


and  you  shall  not  go.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of 
you  wasting  your  life  in  the  lonely  mountains. 
Madge,  your  land  will  make  you  rich,  and  with 
your  brightness  you  could  study  and  learn.  Edu- 
cation will  make  you  an  ornament  to  any  society." 

She  shook  her  head.  "As  fur  as  I  can  see,"  said 
she,  "society  ain't  what  it  is  cracked  up  to  be.  I 
don't  seem  to  have  no  hankerin'  after  it.  Oh,  o' 
course,  I'd  like  to  have  all  this  softness  an'  pooti- 
ness  around  me,  always;  I'd  like  to  go  out  in  th' 
world  an'  see  th'  wonders  as  I've  heard  of;  but  I 
don't  think  that  'u'd  satisfy  me.  I'd  still  be  hank- 
erin' an'  thirstin'  arter  somethin'  that  I  couldn't 
have.  There's  been  a  feelin'  in  my  heart,  ever 
sence  I  come  here,  that'll  take  th'  air  o'  th'  mount- 
ings to  cl'ar  away.  Like  enough,  up  there  among 
th'  wild  things  that  love  me,  amongst  th'  rocks  an' 
hills,  I'll  find  th'  rest  an'  peace  I  ain't  had  since  I 
come  away." 

The  youth  looked  at  her  with  wide,  worried  eyes. 
He  had  not  thought  the  situation  out  in  any  very 
careful  detail;  but  he  had,  at  no  time,  contemplated 
her  immediate  departure.  Now  that  it  seemed  im- 
minent it  brought  his  feelings  to  a  focus,  showed 
him,  instantly,  that  he  could  not  bear  to  have  this 
mountain  maiden  who  had  done  so  much  for  him 
thus  vanish  from  his  life.  A  realization  that  he 
loved  her  deeply,  tenderly,  unchangeably  rushed 
over  him.  That  she  was  a  child  of  nature,  uned- 
ucated and  unaccustomed  to  the  world  he  knew 

335 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


became  a  matter  of  but  small  importance  to  him  as 
he  stood  there  watching  her,  while,  sadly  but  de- 
liberately, she  kept  on  with  her  work  of  packing  in 
the  carpet-bag  her  small  possessions  and  the  many 
gifts  which  she  had  purchased  in  the  city  for  the 
children  of  her  "mountings."  That  the  world 
which  he  had  ever  thought  his  world  might  laugh 
at  her  and  ridicule  him  if  he  married  her  he  knew, 
but,  suddenly,  this  seemed  of  little  consequence. 
The  errors  in  her  education  could  be  readily  cor- 
rected and  her  heart  and  instincts  were  more  nearly 
right,  already,  than  those  of  any  lowland  girl  whom 
he  had  ever  known. 

"Madge,"  he  cried,  "I  cannot  give  you  up!  I 
love  you !" 

The  girl's  hands  stopped  their  busy  work  among 
the  bundles.  Her  cheeks  paled  and  her  lips  parted 
to  a  gasping  little  intake  of  breath.  It  had  not, 
once,  occurred  to  her  modest,  self-sacrificing  mind 
that,  even  as  the  bluegrass  gentleman  had  found 
her  heart  and  taken  it  forever  and  forever  to  be 
his  own,  no  matter  where  she  was  or  how  great 
might  the  distance  be  which  separated  them,  so, 
also,  had  his  heart  really  and  forever  passed  to 
her,  the  simple,  unlettered  and  untrained  little 
maiden  of  the  wilderness.  It  seemed  impossible, 
incredible. 

"You  love  me!" 

"Yes,  I  love  you  as  I  never  have,  as  I  never 


336 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


can  love  any  other  woman.  Madge,  dearest,  I 
want  you  for  my  wife!" 

The  great  desire,  the  certainty  that  if  he  did  not 
win  her  then  all  other  triumphs  would  be  empty, 
meaningless,  had  come  suddenly  upon  him,  but  it 
had  come  with  overwhelming  force.  His  voice 
was  vibrant  with  a  passion  which  surprised  him- 
self. 

"No,  no;  it  can  never  be!"  she  said  tremulously. 
Her  heart  was  in  a  turmoil,  her  hands  trembled 
with  excitement.  Ah,  it  was  hard  for  her  to  put 
away  from  her  the  brilliant  vista  which  had  opened 
there  before  her  startled  eyes!  But  she  was  sure 
that  she  must  do  it;  that  if  she  loved  this  man  she 
must  forswear  him  for  his  own  dear  sake.  What 
right  had  she,  a  mountain-girl,  to  come  down  there 
to  the  bluegrass  to  shame  him  in  the  face  of  friends 
and  foes  by  her  ignorance  and  awkwardness  ?  Her 
heart  yearned  toward  him  with  a  warmth  and  fer- 
vor which  she  had  not  known  as  possible  to  human 
longings,  but — no,  no,  for  his  sake  she  must  give 
him  up,  as,  for  his  sake,  she  had  made  the  long, 
desperate  journey  from  the  mountains  to  save  him 
from  Joe  Lorey's  bullet,  as,  for  his  sake,  shrinking 
and  dismayed,  conscious  that  in  doing  it  she  might 
very  well  be  sacrificing  his  respect  for  her,  she  had 
donned  the  blouse  and  breeches  of  a  jockey,  yester- 
day, to  ride  his  mare  to  victory  when  none  other 
had  been  there  to  save  the  day  for  him.  That  had 
been  a  sacrifice  almost  beyond  the  power  of  words 

337 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


to  tell — a  sacrifice  of  modesty;  now  came  an  even 
greater  one,  but  one  which,  none  the  less,  must  cer- 
tainly be  made.  "No,  no,"  said  she  again,  "it  can 
never,  never  be!" 

"But  I  want  you — just  as  you  are!  What  do  I 
care  for  the  world,  without  you,  or  for  what  it 
says,  so  long  as  you  are  mine?" 

A  flood  of  bitterness  rushed  to  her  heart.  Ah, 
why,  why,  had  fate  made  it  so  necessary  that,  to 
save  him,  she  must  do  what,  yesterday,  she  had 
been  forced  to  do! 

"You're  thinkin'  of  my  ignorance,  an'  such," 
she  said,  with  sad  eyes  bent  upon  the  gifts  which, 
now,  although  she  looked  at  them,  she  did  not  see 
and  had  forgotten.  "But  there's  more  nor  that  as 
stands  between  us,  Mr.  Frank." 

"You  mean  you  don't  love  me?" 

"No,  no;  oh,  what  air  th'  use  o'  denyin'  it?  I 
love  you!  It's  that — it's  that  that  drives  me  from 
you,  an'  that  breaks — my — heart!" 

He  went  close  to  her  and  tried  to  take  her  hands 
in  his.  "Madge,  dear,"  he  said  softly,  "I  want 
you  to  listen  to  me.  I  tell  you  I  shall  not  let  any 
foolish  pride  or  any  fears  for  the  future  stand  in 
the  way  of  our  happiness.  When  I  thought,  a  mo- 
ment ago,  that  I  might  lose  you  forever,  I  saw 
what  my  life  would  be  without  you;  and,  now  that 
I  know  you  love  me,  nothing  shall  come  between 
us.  Madge,  dear  heart,  I  want  you  to  put  your 
hand  in  mine." 

338 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


She  drew  away,  but  it  was  plain  that  she  was 
sorely  tempted.  "Ah,  if  I  only  dared!"  said  she. 

"Come,  Madge,  darling!"  he  said  fervently,  open- 
ing his  arms  to  fold  her  to  his  heart. 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  "it  wouldn't  be  right."  The 
Colonel's  words :  "We'd  think  it  an  eternal  shame 
and  a  disgrace  for  one  of  our  women  to  ride  a 
race  in  a  costume  such  as  you  have  on,"  rang  in 
her  mind  and  filled  her  with  despair.  "The  Colo- 
nel said "  she  began,  weakly. 

"Oh,  damn  the  Colonel!"  Frank  cried  angrily, 
wondering  why  any  one  should  meddle  with  his 
heart-affairs. 

And  as  he  spoke  the  Colonel  entered  hurriedly, 
evidently  bearing  news  of  import. 

Startled  by  the  young  man's  earnest  words,  he 
stopped  short  in  astonishment.  "Why — what's 
that,  sir?"  he  exclaimed  amazed,  and  then,  seeing 
clearly  that  he  had  broken  in  upon  a  fervent  senti- 
mental situation  and  unwilling  to  believe  that  Frank 
could  really  have  meant  him  when  he  had  been  so 
emphatic,  turned  his  thoughts,  again,  to  the  news 
which  had  brought  him  in  such  haste. 

"I  say,"  he  said,  excitedly,  "I've  been  cross-ex- 
amining that  rascal,  Ike,  and  I've  found  out  who 
smuggled  the  whiskey  to  him." 

"Who  was  it?"  Madge  and  Frank  cried  almost 
in  unison. 

"That  double-distilled,  three-ply  scoundrel, 
Horace  Holton,"  said  the  Colonel,  angrily. 

339 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Holton!"  Frank  exclaimed.  "I  wouldn't  have 
believed  it!" 

"I  would,"  Madge  commented. 

"I'll  find  him  and  settle  with  him  for  it!"  Frank 
angrily  exclaimed. 

"I'm  afraid  that's  easier  said  than  done,"  the 
Colonel  answered,  "but  I'm  with  you,  and  we'll 
do  our  best." 

Through  the  windows  came  the  noise  of  baying 
hounds.  It  instantly  attracted  their  attention,  as  it 
ever  will  that  of  Kentuckians.  "What's  that?  A 
fox-hunt  ?" 

Frank  had  hurried  to  the  window  and  was  look- 
ing out.  "No,"  he  answered,  in  incredulous  amaze- 
ment, "it's  Holton  and  his  gang.  They're  hunting 
Joe  Lorey  with  dogs!" 

Madge  hurried  to  his  side,  distressed  beyond  the 
power  of  words  to  tell.  "Oh,  oh!"  she  cried. 
"They're  coming  this  way,  and — and — who's  that  ?" 

As  she  spoke  Joe  Lorey  dashed  up,  breathless  to 
the  window. 


340 


CHAPTER  XIX 

The  moonshiner  stood  there,  pathetic  in  his  beaten 
strength  before  them. 

"They're  huntin'  me  with  dogs!"  he  said. 
"They're  goin'  to  string  me  up  without  justice  or 
mercy!" 

Madge  hurried  to  his  side.  "Joe,  they  shan't  do 
it!"  she  exclaimed,  and  took  his  hand. 

"It'll  take  more  nor  you  to  save  me,  little  one," 
he  said,  and  smiled  down  at  her  pitifully.  "There's 
no  hope  for  me,  now.  That's  why  I've  come  hyar, 
to  say  to  you  all,  afore  I  die,  that  I  am  innocent  o' 
firm'  th'  stable."  He  threw  back  his  shoulders  and 
stood  before  them,  impressive  and  convincing. 
"Afore  God,  I  am  innocent!" 

Frank  looked  at  him  with  eyes  which,  as  they 
gazed,  altered  their  expression.  He  had  thought  the 
man  quite  possibly  guilty  of  a  vicious  act — a  foul 
attempt  to  burn  a  helpless  animal  in  order  to  obtain 
revenge  upon  the  man  who  owned  her.  But  as  he 
gazed  he  could  not  doubt  that  he  was  speaking 
simple  truth.  "Joe,"  he  said  impulsively,  "I  be- 
lieve you!" 

341 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


Joe  turned  to  him  with  gratitude  plain  upon  his 
face.  "You  believe  me — arter  all  that's  passed?" 
He  looked  straight  into  the  eyes  of  the  young  man 
he  had  hated,  with  a  searching,  earnest  gaze. 
"Then,"  he  said,  after  a  second's  pause,  "I  believe 
as  what  you  said,  that  night,  war  true.  It  war  never 
you  as  ruined  me."  He_held  his  hand  out  to  the 
man  whom,  not  so  long  ago,  he  had  wished,  with 
all  his  heart,  to  kill. 

Frank  grasped  it  with  a  hearty  grip,  just  as  the 
terrifying  baying  of  the  hounds  approached  the 
house. 

"Frank,  they're  coming  here !"  the  Colonel  cried, 
excited. 

Joe  turned  away  from  Frank,  looking  here  and 
there  like  a  hunted  animal.  "Oh,  it's  hard  to  die 
afore  I've  met  Lem  Lindsay!"  he  said  hopelessly. 
It  was  quite  plain  that  he  considered  his  fate  sealed. 

Even  as  he  spoke  Holton  and  half-a-dozen  others 
sprang  to  the  broad  gallery  which  fronted  the  whole 
room.  Holton  was  plainly  the  leader  of  the  party, 
for  when  he  motioned  all  the  others  back,  they 
obeyed  his  signal  without  protest,  while  he,  him- 
self, peered  eagerly  in  through  a  wide,  open 
window. 

Frank,  angered  beyond  measure  by  this  bold  in- 
trusion, would  have  sprung  toward  him,  to  -attack 
him,  had  not  the  Colonel  waved  him  back. 

"Frank,  my  boy,"  said  he,  "keep  cool,  keep 
cool!" 

342 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


As  he  spoke,  without  apology,  Holton  stepped 
through  the  window  into  the  room,  itself. 

"Layson,"  he  said  curtly,  "I'm  a  committee  o' 
one  to  ask  if  you'll  turn  over  that  man,  an'  make 
no  trouble."  He  jerked  a  thumb  toward  Joe. 

Layson  was  wrathful  at  the  man's  intrusion;  he 
had  been  impressed  by  what  the  fugitive  had  said. 
"No,"  he  answered,  hotly.  "Joe  Lorey's  in  my 
house,  under  my  protection,  and,  by  the  eternal,  you 
shan't  lay  a  hand  on  him!" 

The  Colonel  smiled,  delighted.  "Kentucky 
blood!"  he  cried.  "I'll  back  you  to  a  finish!" 

He  ranged  himself  by  Frank,  and  Madge,  as 
belligerent  as  either  of  them,  hurried,  also,  to  his 
side. 

"I'm  with  you,  Colonel,"  she  exclaimed,  with  the 
spirit  of  the  mountain-bred,  "and  we'll  win  ag'in, 
as  we  did  once  before!" 

Joe  saw  this  with  distress.  Layson's  generosity 
had  softened  him.  He  knew,  perfectly,  by  this 
time,  that  Madge  was  not  for  him,  and  her  spirit 
in  joining  his  defenders — the  very  men  whom  he 
had  thought  his  enemies — touched  him  deeply.  The 
realization  came  to  him  with  a  quick  rush  that  he 
had  wronged  the  bluegrass  folk  whom  he  had  hated 
with  such  bitterness.  He  looked  first  at  those  who 
wished  to  take  him  prisoner  and  make  him  suffer 
for  a  crime  of  which  he  was  not  guilty,  and  then 
at  his  defenders,  who  had  every  reason  to  doubt 
him,  but  still,  without  a  question,  had  accepted  his 

343 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


own  plea  of  innocence.  He  had  already  made  these 
people  trouble.  Now  was  his  opportunity  to  save 
them  from  an  awkward  situation  and,  perhaps,  a 
perilous  one.  There  might  be  shooting  if  he  of- 
fered to  resist  or  let  these  good  friends  attempt  to 
defend  him.  That  would  endanger  them,  and, 
worse,  endanger  Madge.  "I'll  go.  I  don't  want  to 
make  no  trouble,"  he  said  hastily. 

Holton  nodded  with  approval.  He  wished  to 
take  the  man  as  quickly  and  as  simply  as  he  could. 
Every  complication  which  could  be  avoided  would 
make  less  probable  discovery  of  the  fact  that  he, 
himself,  and  not  the  fugitive  young  mountaineer, 
was  the  real  culprit. 

"That's  sensible,"  he  said,  "for  them  men,  out 
thar,  are  bound  to  hev  you,  by  fair  means  or  foul." 

"Those  men  will  listen  to  reason,"  Frank  said 
with  a  determination  which  disconcerted  the  ex- 
slave  dealer.  "They  shall  hear  me!"  He  stepped 
toward  the  open  window.  "Colonel,  come  with 
me."  Without  waiting  for  him  he  stepped  to  the 
gallery  outside. 

The  Colonel  started  to  go  also,  but,  seeing  that 
Holton,  too,  was  about  to  hurry  out,  paused  long 
enough  to  go  up  to  him  threateningly.  "Don't  you 
dare  to  follow !"  he  warned  him.  "We'll  play  this 
hand  alone."  The  man  fell  back  and  the  Colonel 
kept  his  eyes  on  him  as,  slowly,  he  joined  Frank  on 
the  gallery. 

Helton's  discomfiture  lasted  but  a  moment.     As 

344 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


soon  as  the  Colonel  had  passed  out  of  sight  he  got 
his  wits  back  and  looked  threateningly  at  Madge 
and  the  mountaineer.  "We'll  see  about  that,"  he 
declared  viciously,  and,  making  a  movement  of  his 
hand  which  indicated  that  he  must  be  armed,  al- 
though he  had  not  shown  a  weapon,  so  far,  moved 
toward  another  window  which  also  opened  on  the 
gallery. 

But  he  had  not  counted  on  old  Neb.  The  darkey 
found  in  this  emergency  the  opportunity  for  which 
he  had  been  waiting  many  years.  Lapse  of  time 
had  never  dulled  his  keen  resentment  of  the  blow 
the  man  had  struck  him;  now  it  was  with  keen  de- 
light that  he  stepped  out  of  the  shadow  just  outside 
the  window,  with  a  carelessly  held  pistol  in  his  hand, 
which  somehow  appeared  to  cover  Holton.  "De 
Gunnel  said  you'd  please  stay  heah,  suh,"  he  said 
placidly ;  but  the  pistol  gave  his  words  an  emphasis 
which  could  not  be  mistaken. 

Holton  paled  with  rage,  but  did  not  take  another 
forward  step. 

As  he  fell  back  Joe  Lorey  spoke.  The  murmur 
of  the  mob  outside,  incited,  he  well  knew,  to  hun- 
ger for  his  life,  and  the  loud  voices  of  the  Colonel 
and  of  Frank,  raised  in  expostulation,  made  an  ac- 
companiment for  what  he  had  to  say  to  Holton, 
and  that  he  still  was  in  grave  danger  made  his  at- 
titude more  menacing,  his  words  more  impressive. 

"Yes,"  he  said  to  Holton,  while  Madge  gazed, 


345 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


spellbound,  "you  hold  on.  I've  a  word  to  say  to 
you." 

"Say  it,  then,  and  say  it  quick,"  said  Holton, 
trying  to  make  his  tone  contemptuous. 

"I'll  say  it  quick,  and  I'll  say  it  plain.  You 
know  as  it  war  never  me  as  fired  that  stable.  You 
war  there  an'  saw  me  leave  afore  th'  fire.  It's  yer 
place  to  cl'ar  me.  Why  air  you  a-houndin'  me  to 
my  death?" 

Holton  was  uncomfortable.  "Them  men  out  thar 
believe  ye  guilty.  It  ain't  my  work,"  he  said. 

The  mountaineer  was  not  deceived.  He  knew 
this  man  to  be  his  enemy,  although  he  knew  no  rea- 
son for  his  hatred.  "It's  you  as  air  settin'  'em  on," 
he  said,  "as  you  set  me  on  Frank  Layson  when 
you  told  me  that  lie  ag'in  him  in  th'  mountings." 

Madge  had  listened,  speechless,  during  this  dra- 
matic scene,  but  stood  watching  it,  alert  and  ready 
to  lend  aid  to  her  friend,  if  opportunity  arose. 
Now,  at  Joe's  words,  she  started  forward. 

"Was  it  him  as  told  you?"  she  inquired,  amazed. 

Joe  did  not  answer  her,  but  continued  to  face 
Holton  and  address  him.  "I  believed  you,"  he 
went  on,  "because  I  thought  you  couldn't  a-knowed 
o'  th'  still  except  through  him;  but  since  he  never 
told  you,  it  air  proof  to  me  that  you  have  been  in 
these  here  mountings,  sometime,  afore."  Strange 
suspicions  were  glittering  from  his  hostile  eyes  as 
he  faced  the  now  thoroughly  alarmed  man  who,  a 
moment  since,  had  been  the  blustering  bully. 

346 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"I  tell  you  I  were  never  thar!"  said  Holton  hur- 
riedly. 

'Then  how  did  you  know  of  th'  cave  an'  the 
oak?"  said  Joe,  accusingly.  The  glitter  of  suspi- 
cion in  his  eyes  was  growing  brighter  every  sec- 
ond. "It's  plain  to  me  as  how  you've  passed  many 
a  day  thar  in  them  mountings.  Thar's  somethin' 
bound  up  in  yer  past  as  has  egged  you  on  ag'in  me. 
I  wants  to  know  what  that  thing  is — I  wants  to 
know  just  who  an'  what  ye  air!" 

"It's  easy  enough  to  show  who  Horace  Holton 
is,"  the  man  said,  blustering,  but  he  was  very  ill  at 
ease.  "What  do  I  care  what  you  want?"  And  then 

he  made  a  slip.     "You  can't  bring  no  proof "  he 

began,  but  caught  himself. 

Madge  had  been  watching  him  with  new  intent- 
ness.  The  excitement  of  the  moment  may  have 
sharpened  the  girl's  wits,  or,  possibly,  its  hint  of 
peril  may  have  brought  to  Helton's  face  some  de- 
tail of  expression,  which,  during  recent  weeks,  had 
not  before  appeared  upon  it. 

"But  I  kin,"  she  said,  slowly.  "I  war  right  in 
what  I  thought  when  I  first  saw  you  in  th'  moun- 
tings. I  had  seen  your  face  afore!" 

"Don't  you  dare  say  that!"  cried  Holton,  step- 
ping toward  her  angrily.  The  man  who  had  been 
the  accuser,  was,  strangely,  now,  quite  plainly,  half 
at  bay. 

"That  look  ag'in!"  the  girl  said-  studying  his 
face.  "That  look  war  printed  on  my  baby  brain  I" 

347 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"Silence,  I  say !"  cried  Holton,  now  badly  fright- 
ened. He  had  not  counted  on  this  recognition. 

"Never!"  the  girl  said  boldly.  She  was  certain, 
now,  as  she  looked  at  him,  that  the  suspicion  which 
had  flashed  into  her  mind  was  accurate.  Her 
cheeks  paled  and  she  stepped  toward  him  with  set 
face,  clenched  hands.  Every  fibre  in  her  thrilled 
with  horror  of  him,  every  drop  of  blood  in  her 
young  body  cried  for  vengeance  on  him.  "I'll  rouse 
th'  world  ag'in  ye!"  she  exclaimed,  so  tensely  that 
even  Lorey  looked  at  her  with  alarmed  amazement. 
"I'll  rouse  th'  world  ag'in  ye,  for  I'm  standin'  face 
to  face  with  my  own  father's  murderer — Lem 
Lindsay!" 

"Lem  Lindsay !"  said  Joe,  wonderingly,  and  then, 
with  the  expression  on  his  face  of  a  wild-beast 
about  to  spring  upon  his  prey :  "At  last !" 

Holton  shrank  away  from  them  in  terror  which 
he  could  not  hide.  His  bravado  was  all  gone.  He 
was,  no  longer,  the  accuser,  but,  with  the  mention 
of  that  name,  had  changed  places  with  Joe  Lorey 
and  become  the  fugitive,  shrinking,  alarmed. 

"  'Sh !  Don't  speak  that  name !"  he  pleaded.  He 
made  no  effort  at  denial.  There  was  that  in  the 
girl's  eyes  which  told  him  that  her  recognition  had 
been  absolute.  "I've  been  hidin'  it  for  years."  He 
spoke  pleadingly.  "Look  hyar.  I've  got  everythin' 
that  heart  can  wish.  Joe  Lorey,  I'll  save  you  from 
them  men.  I'll  sw'ar  I  saw  you  leave  the  stable 
afore  th'  fire  begun."  He  moved  his  eyes  from  one 

348 


'I'M   8TASDIN'  FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  MY  OWN  FATHIR'8  MrRDEREB—  LEM   LIKD»AT." 

Foyt  MB. 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


of  the  accusing  faces  to  the  other,  terrified.  "I'll 
make  ye  both  rich  if  you'll  never  speak  that  name 
ag'in!" 

"Your  weight  in  gold  would  make  no  differ!" 
Joe  cried  menacingly.  "Lem  Lindsay,  it  air  Heav- 
en's work  that's  given  you  into  my  hands!"  He 
went  toward  him  slowly,  menacingly,  with  his 
strong  fingers  working  with  desire  to  clutch  his 
shrinking  throat.  "It  air  Heaven's  will  as  you 
should  meet  your  fall  through  Ben  Lorey's  son!" 

Holton,  desperate,  gathered  courage  for  a  last 
effort  to  escape  from  the  net  which  he  had  woven 
to  his  own  undoing.  With  a  quick  movement  he 
drew  from  his  belt,  where  his  long  coat  had  con- 
cealed its  presence,  hitherto,  a  gleaming  knife,  and, 
with  it  upraised,  rushed  at  Joe  viciously.  "I'm  a 
free  man,  yet,"  he  cried,  "an'  I'm  a-goin'  to  stay 
free!" 

Joe,  alert,  calm-eyed,  cool-witted,  waited  for 
him  with  a  hand  upraised  to  catch  his  wrist,  with 
muscles  braced  to  meet  the  fierce  attack. 

Madge  rushed  to  the  window,  calling  loudly: 
"Colonel!  Mr.  Frank!" 

But  Holton  and  Joe  Lorey  were,  by  that  time, 
locked  in  a  desperate  grip  and  struggling  with  the 
energy  of  men  battling  for  their  lives.  Twisting 
and  straining,  each  striving  with  the  last  ounce  of 
energy  within  him  to  get  the  better  of  the  other, 
they  plunged  across  the  room  and  out  into  the  hall. 

Just  as  Frank  and  the  Colonel  hurried  in,  a  shot 

349 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


was  heard  and  then  a  heavy  fall.  An  instant  later 
Joe  came  to  the  door. 

"Heaven's  will  are  done!"  he  said,  quite  simply. 

Layson  rushed  toward  him,  but  paused,  aghast, 
looking  off  through  the  open  door.  "Joe,  you've 
killed  him!"  he  exclaimed. 

"An'  I  had  a  right!1'  said  Joe,  now  strangely 
calm.  "When  he  killed  my  father  it  were  ordained 
that  he  should  fall  by  my  hands.  I  ain't  a  feared 
to  stand  my  trial." 

"The  men  outside  have  promised,"  Layson  said, 
dismayed  by  this  new  and  terrible  complication, 
"that  you  shall  have  a  fair  trial  on  the  other  charge. 
They've  gone,  now,  for  the  sheriff.  But  this 
charge,"  he  looked  toward  the  door  which  led  into 
the  hall,  "will  be  more  serious !" 

"I  can  clear  him  of  'em  both,"  said  Madge.  "I'll 
sw'ar  th'  killin'  was  in  self-defense;  I'll  sw'ar  that 
Holton  owned,  before  me,  that  he  saw  Joe  leave  th' 
stable  afore  th'  fire." 

"He  saw  him!"  exclaimed'  Frank,  astonished. 
"What  was  Holton  doing  there?" 

"Oh,  don't  you  see?"  said  Madge.  "He  war 
your  enemy — th'  man  as  told  Joe  th'  lie  ag'in  you 
in  th'  mountings,  th'  man  as  tried  to  burn  Oueen 
Bess." 

The  Colonel  had  entered,  quickly,  from  the  gal- 
lery, and  stood  listening,  amazed  and  fascinated. 
Now,  after  a  moment's  pause  to  think  the  matter 
out,  he  advanced  to  Joe  with  outstretched  hand. 

350 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


For  the  man  who  had  been  guilty  of  that  vile  mis- 
chief he  felt  no  regret,  for  the  man  who  had,  in 
a  fair  fight  and  with  good  reason,  shot  him  down, 
he  felt  full  sympathy.  "Tried  to  burn  Queen 
Bess!"  he  cried.  "Joe,  the  jury'll  clear  you  with- 
out leaving  their  seats!  Come,  my  boy — the  sher- 
iff's here,  and  you  will  have  to  go  with  him;  but 
don't  you  worry.  I'll  see  you  through." 

Joe  stood,  thinking,  with  bowed  head  and  frown- 
ing brow.  Suddenly  he  looked  up  and  cast  his  eyes 
about  upon  the  company.  "Before  I  goes,  I  wants 
to  say  a  word  to  Madge,"  said  he,  and  turned  to 
her  with  an  impressive  earnestness.  "Little  one, 
don't  you  never  fret  about  me,  no  more."  He  took 
her  hand  and  she  gave  it  to  him  gladly.  "I  see, 
now,  as  you  was  never  made  for  me."  He  took 
a  step  toward  Frank  and  led  her  to  him.  "I  see 
whar  your  heart  is,  an'  I  puts  your  hand  in  his." 
With  bowed  head  he  relinquished  the  brown  hand 
of  the  mountain-girl  whom  he  had  loved  since  child- 
hood, to  the  outstretched  hand  of  the  young  "for- 
eigner," whom  he  no  longer  looked  at  with  the 
hatred  which  had  so  long  thrilled  his  heart.  "And 
— now  I  says  goodbye.  God  bless  you  both!" 

He  went  out,  slowly,  with  the  Colonel. 

"Madge,  he's  right,"  said  Frank,  "this  little  hand 
is  mine." 

He  would  havo  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  but, 
finally,  she  held  him  off. 


IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


"No,  no,"  said  she,  "not  till  you  know  my  se- 
cret. It  was  I  who  rode  Queen  Bess." 

"You  rode  Queen  Bess !" 

The  Colonel  was  re-entering-  the  room.  "But  the 
world  will  never  know  it,"  he  said  gallantly,  "on 
the  honor  of  a  Kentuckian." 

Frank's  smile  was  radiant.  "If  it  did,  I  should 
say:  'Here,  Madge,  in  my  arms,  is  your  shelter 
from  the  world.' '  He  drew  her  to  him  gently. 
"Madge,  my  little  wife!" 

END. 


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